


Tinderbox

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: F/M, I watched this film this week and I am in LOVE, a lot of nonsense really, may escalate into a novel, romantic suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 28,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22476670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Rosie's started a new life for herself in New York City. So why does she still feel like looking over her shoulder more often than not? Maybe the assistance of a grumpy British Detective is just what she needs to feel right at home.
Relationships: walter Marshall x Original Female Character
Comments: 119
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to my beta on Tumblr, @ly--canthrope !

_Tinderbox_ (noun). a thing that is readily ignited.

  
  


_Five in, five out._

_Five in, five out._

It was Rosie’s mantra when she felt off-kilter, uneasy. When she sometimes feared that moving to big bad New York City had been too much for her. That she should have stayed in her nice safe Midwestern town, working in a nice safe Midwestern store, married to a Midwestern man.

Most of the time, it was easy to knock those thoughts away.

But here, sitting alone in a bar - she’d ducked in on the way to catch the subway home - to escape the pelting rain, she could feel the eyes of a guy sitting across the room from her.

I’m not imagining it. At first she’d brushed it off as nerves. Rosie had good reason to be nervous, even here, miles and miles away from her life before.

She checked her phone for nothing and hoped she looked like she was texting a burly husband, brother or lover.

The bartender approached her and Rosie looked up. The salt and pepper haired man offered a shot of something that smelled like a tequila, balanced on a worn plastic tray. “From the guy by the jukebox.”

Rosie’s stomach clenched. “Uh, no thanks.” She looked over her shoulder at the guy in the faded leather jacket, smiling in what she hoped was a polite but distant way. How did a girl convey _please leave me alone_ with only her eyes?

The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Rosie stared into her small glass of wine, trying to make herself inconspicuous. She counted her heartbeats. Six passed and then, over the terrible soft rock playing in the bar, she heard the unmistakable creak of a chair.

_Please, no._

“Hey, would it kill you to show a little gratitude?”

Glancing up, Rosie smelled the tang of cigarette smoke on the stranger’s battered leather jacket. His blonde hair curled over his forehead, giving him a boyish look that was completely belied by the menacing scowl scored over his face.

“Thankyou for the drink,” she made herself say, “But I really just want to be by myself.”

He took the stool next to her anyway, without invitation. “Surely a pretty thing like you would prefer some company.”

Rosie looked around for the bartender, but he was serving a group of women dressed to kill, looking as if they were on the prowl. Why hadn’t Tequila Guy chosen one of them?

Because you’re on your own, that’s why, her conscience chided her.

“Please. I just wanted to get out of the rain.” She put some steel into her voice.

Tequila Guy leaned into her, the smell of his smoking habit intensifying. “I have someplace we could go that’s nice and warm. Come on, keep me company. You hungry? I’ll buy you dinner first if that’s what you want.”

Fear prickled down her spine as his persistence.

“I said no. Thankyou, I’m flattered, but I - I’m waiting for someone.”

His smile edged into feral territory. “We both know that isn’t true.”

Rosie straightened her spine. Enough was enough. “I have to be going. Thanks for the...talk.”

He set his arm across the table. “Stay for a drink. That’s all I want. C’mon, be a doll?” 

“I’m not your doll.” She moved to go past him but he blocked her way, grabbing her arm. His fingers bit in and Rosie suppressed a wince. “Let me go-”

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I’m late.”

Rosie’s heart skipped a beat at the deep English-accented voice and she looked up. One of the most beautiful men she’d seen for some time stood over her table. A pile of dark, curly hair framed his face and kissed his collar, and a short beard hugged his strong jaw. Blue eyes blazed as he met her gaze, and she saw his eyes flick downwards for a second. She followed the hint, saw him move the edge of his Winter parka aside to reveal the curved, shiny edge of a Detective’s shield.

 _Play along,_ his eyes said.

Rosie pushed the hand of startled Tequila Guy off her arm. “Hey, honey. Thanks for meeting me.”

Tequila Guy looked frantically from Rosie to Detective Dreamy. “She, uh, had something on her coat.”

The Detective raised a brow. “Right. Hadn’t you better run along?” He moved his parka aside further. His badge showed fully now, briefly illuminated by a crack of lightning in the angry black winter sky beyond the bar’s big picture window.

Tequila Guy nodded shakily and made a beeline for the exit. Rosie watched him go. Only when the door banged shut behind him did she let out the breath she’d been holding. She raised her eyes to the Detective. “Thankyou.”

“You’re welcome.” Tall and broad, he towered over her, some of that gloriously curly hair flopping over his forehead. Nodding once as if he’d done his duty, he turned to go.

“Wait. Can I….. would you like a drink?”

“Thanks, but not necessary.”

There was something about him. Something that drew Rosie. His broad frame? The tired shadows under his cobalt eyes? The jumper under his parka, the colour of moss, that looked as if he’d slept in it?

“Please.”

He seemed to hesitate. “I’d gladly take a coffee. But not here. Diner over the road has some of the best coffee I’ve tasted.”

More than happy to leave the bar, Rosie took one last sip of the disappointing white wine and stood, gathering her coat and bag. “Lead the way. I’m Rosie.”

“Marshall.”

He didn’t specify whether it was a first or last name, and she didn’t pry. God knew she’d had enough questions in the past to last a lifetime. She wouldn’t poke her nose into someone else’s business.

The rain lashed at them as Marshall opened the door to the bar. He pulled up the hood of his parka and Rosie followed suit with her heavy winter coat. Black clouds rolled menacingly over the city that never slept.

They didn’t talk on the short walk across the street. Marshall held the door of the diner open and the warmth and homey smell of frying food enveloped her like a longed-for hug.

He chose a table near the back, and she shrugged her coat off. “Regular coffee?”

“Thanks. Straight up, no milk or sugar.”

“Nothing to eat?” 

He shook his head. His eyes looked wary and watchful, and she wondered if he was on duty. What his day had been like. If he was as tired as he looked.

 _Rushing to play happy families, are we?_ her conscience taunted. She mentally shrugged off the thoughts and ordered at the counter, two coffees, and, because she hadn’t eaten much today, a pancake stack with bacon. Glancing at Marshall, she felt pretty sure he’d finish whatever she couldn’t manage.

The coffees were poured right from the pot and she carted them over to the table.

He raised those bottomless eyes to her when she arrived, wrapped his hands around the chipped white mug. “Thanks.”

Rosie took her seat. The radio played in the background, better than the soft rock _musak_ in the bar. “I should be thanking you. How did you know I needed help?” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall insists on seeing Rosie home safely.

“Saw you through the window.” He didn’t have the rounded, plummy British accent of the Royals she’d seen on TV, but he was well-spoken nonetheless. How long had he lived here, she wondered idly. “Could tell something was wrong.”

He looked as if he’d say more but the waitress arrived with the pancakes and two forks. Rosie thanked her and lifted her fork up. “Help yourself.”

Marshall’s eyes lingered on the pancakes for a moment. “If you can’t finish it, I’ll step in.”

The first bite was heaven. The second was better. For someone who worked in a deli, she  had surprisingly little time to eat.

As she mentally swooned over syrupy pancakes, Marshall sat straight in his chair, watching everything going on around them. Did he ever get to switch off, she wondered, and when he did, who did he choose to be with?

“Are you on duty?” she asked, after another bite of pancake and salty, crispy bacon, just how she liked it. “Or do you regularly rescue women from douchebags in your downtime?”

The hint of a smile quirked his lips. “Off duty for another eight hours.”

“Then have some pancakes.”

The ghost of a smile  lingered  on his mouth as Marshall took the other fork and dutifully ate some pancakes. His raised eyebrow said  _ is that better? _

Rosie laughed at his silent sass. How long had it been since she’d shared a moment with a man like this? Just a friendly cup of coffee and a chat?

_ You’ve been scared to until now. _

Marshall was a large man. He fair towered over her, and his broadness might have been off-putting to some. But his worn-out gaze and his threadbare sweater told her without words that he was a man dedicated to his job, to the city he served.

Lightning flashed again outside as a fresh torrent of rain pelted the windows. 

“Do you have far to go home?” she asked. He looked like he needed someone to talk to, but then again, maybe she was projecting because he was a long, tall drink of water.

“A couple of stops on the tube - ah, subway.” He shook his head. “Still not used to it.”

Rosie gazed at the rain outside. The sound of the hail obscured the tinny radio in the diner. Outside, people hurried for shelter as the sky did its worst. She pushed the near-empty plate away, suddenly ready for her bed. 

“Thanks again, Detective. I think I’d better be going. I hope you get some rest before your next shift starts.”

Surprise flickered over his face , and again , she wondered who looked after him. A foolish thing to think on. Not everyone needed or wanted looking after, and at six feet two with the body of a God, the Detective seemed more than capable of looking after himself. 

Rosie started to put her coat on and Marshall followed suit. “You’re taking the subway too?”

“Just a few stops.”

Marshall held open the diner door for her. A gust of cold pierced right through the layers of her coat and sweater and she shivered.

“Let me see you home.”

She looked up and met his gaze, about to say that it hardly seemed necessary, but then, where would she have been this evening if not for his observation skills? Instead she swallowed her pride. Humility tasted like bacon and the cold, hard rain. “Thankyou, I’d appreciate it.”

They both pulled their hoods up on the walk to the subway. The lights of the city shone down around and above them, the bustle of people constant, even in the apocalyptic weather. The hail battered the streets as they escaped gratefully down the subway steps. The rattle of the train in the tunnel was loud in Rosie’s ears as she pushed her card against the turnstile. Marshall followed suit and as he lifted his coat she spied the edge of what looked like a thigh holster.

He stayed close by her side as they walked down to the platform. She caught a whiff of his scent, the sweetness of maple syrup, a hint of cedarwood, the fresh aroma of the rainfall. 

“How many stops?” His blue eyes stayed watchful and she had a feeling that if he didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening.

“Four.” 

The train rushed in, bringing a gust of air with it, and Rosie shoved her hands back in her pockets. The doors opened and people poured out; it’d be a few hours before the subway got close to quiet, and Rosie planned to be asleep by then, after reading a few pages of her book while her cat curled up warm at her feet.

If that was boring, then she was happy to be boring.

She’d had enough  _ excitement _ for several lives over.

Marshall followed her as she stepped into the car and the doors slid shut behind them. He got a few glances, because, she expected, of his height and his sheer size. And it didn’t hurt that even tired and covered in rainwater, the Detective was hot as all hell.

They didn’t speak until the subway rolled up to her stop in the cheaper part of Brooklyn. 

“You needn’t see me to my door,” she said as they came up to street level. Mercifully, the rain had stopped, and the clouds had retreated some to reveal a couple of pinprick stars.

One thing she missed from her small Midwestern town: starlight.

“I’ll come, all the same,” he said gruffly.

Rosie let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.  _ Okay. _

She didn’t want him to go. And wasn’t that utter madness?

She led him down the three streets that led to her tiny walk-up. It might only be one room - well, two if you included the tiny but beautiful bathroom - but it was all hers, and that was all that mattered to her.

“This is me.” She gestured to the steps that led to the big brownstone, divided into studios.

“I’ll take you up to your door.”

Rosie started to say there was no need, but he’d come this far. It seemed an insult to send him away now.

She climbed the steps and he followed. What would it be like, to be granted a man like this at her side every day? She’d never be afraid again.

Two floors up, she took out her key, turned to Marshall.

“Thank you again. Really.”

“You’re welcome.” His lips twitched in what might have been a half-smile. “Really.”

Rosie hesitated, key in hand. She should say goodnight, go inside, take the shoes off her achy feet and read her book, pet and feed her cat.

But Marshall was so solid and warm. His hair curled wildly, frizzy from the rain where he’d left his hood down. His eyes blazed blue in his tired face, and for a hot second she wanted to plunge her fingers into his hair and  kiss him to see if he still tasted of coffee and maple syrup.

“Would you… like to come in?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall is invited inside.

Marshall’s dark brows winged up. “You think someone might be inside?”

“No.” God, she was making a hash of this, wasn’t she? Rosie collected herself. “Well, technically  _ yes, _ my cat, Salami, will be inside, but no other people. I…. how about coffee?”

_ Great, Rosie, _ her inner voice practically eyerolled.

He gazed at her for a moment, as if something warred inside within him for a moment. “I’ll see you inside,” he said finally. The air seemed sucked from the hallway, and Rosie wondered if she’d made the wrong decision. Misread him, and herself.

She opened the door with her key. The lamp she had on a timer had come on, and as she stepped inside, Salami meowed plaintively. Rosie bent down to scratch the tabby cat behind the ears. “Miss me, did you, baby?”

Straightening, she turned back to Marshall. “It isn’t much, but it’s home.”

He smiled grimly. “You should see my place. This is great.”

His words made her curiosity spike. Bachelor pad? As a cop, how much downtime did he get? Unease stirred in her stomach. He’d said eight hours and an hour had to have passed by then. She should let him go.

But, but….

It’d been over a year since Rosie had experienced closeness with a man. Longer since she’d  _ wanted _ to. Towards the end with Dylan, she’d been intimate with him more out of a sense of duty, of trying to fix things, somehow, than  _ want. _

But that emotion, that  _ need, _ stirred inside her now.

Marshall cleared his throat and Rosie knew she either needed to shit or get off the pot. 

“The thing is, Marshall, I…” Salami wound around her legs and she found the courage to just say it. “Would you stay?”

His cobalt eyes darkened. “You’re afraid of being alone?”

“No. I want you to stay.” Because he looked ready to go, Rosie did something she’d been thinking about since she’d seen him take a fork of pancakes. She leaned up on her toes and brushed her lips over his.

Marshall stayed stock still for a moment and Rosie dropped back to her heels, nerves shredding in her stomach.  _ Oh, Lord. I’ve made the wrong decision. _

“You don’t owe me anything, Rosie,” he said stiffly.

“I know.”

“And I don’t want your memory of me to be…. Regret.”

He wanted her to have a memory of him? There was maybe some hope.

“Oh, I won’t regret it. That’s a promise.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “And you always keep your promises?”

“As often as I can.”

Marshall slipped his hands out of his pockets and settled his big hands on her arms. He let out a long breath. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

“I can’t look at you and believe that,” Rosie scoffed, relaxing a little. He hadn’t turned to leave.

“Law enforcement doesn’t leave much space for a personal life,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

Salami meowed plaintively, and the spell was broken. 

“Sorry baby. You must be hungry. I…. make yourself at home,” Rosie offered as she turned to the cupboard to get Salami’s biscuits from the shelf.

She’d kept the place tidy thank goodness - not that there was any difficulty doing that when your home consisted of a single room and a very small bathroom.

Marshall crossed the space of her studio of the back wall. She knew what hung there. One of her favourite artworks. She’d painted it right before she moved here. Trees bowed to create an arch, storm clouds above, and a single female silhouette stood in the centre, radiating silent power.

“Is this yours?” His voice carried to her.

“Yeah.”

“It’s beautiful.”

There was no insincerity or fawning in his tone. Just honest appreciation. “Thank you.” She poured kibble into Salami’s bowl and topped up his water. The cat began to eat in earnest, purring. Rosie gave him one stroke from ears to tail, then straightened up, shoving her hands in her pockets, suddenly awkward, her heartbeat loud.

“Have a seat, if you like.”

Marshall sat on the futon that doubled as her bed and sofa. She hadn’t bothered converting it back to a sofa this morning but thankfully she had neatened it, tucking the dove-grey sheets in under the mattress. His quiet presence dominated the room and she crossed over to him. This part was hard, the getting-to-the-sex part.

Rosie sat opposite him. “Ah, I….”

“How about we start by taking our coats off.”

She half-laughed, shrugged hers off. Marshall stood and divested himself of his heavy parka, laying it over a chair. Rosie watched, entranced, as he pulled the gun out of a hip holster and laid it gently on the seat of the chair his coat hung over.

He glanced up and followed the path of her gaze. “Does it bother you? The gun?”

“No.”

He came to sit back down on the futon. “Rosie…”

Her name sounded poetic in his accent. Suddenly keen to end the awkwardness, she leaned forward and touched her mouth to his, opened her lips for him. Marshall inhaled sharply and then he was kissing her back, and he tasted of the tang of coffee and an edge of sweetness from the maple syrup. His hands came to rest at her waist and he pulled her closer. Rosie lifted her fingers to tangle in the dark curls of his hair, damp from the rain and tattered-silk soft. 

It was a long time since she’d done this dance, and she had to hope that all the moves had stayed the same.

She let her other hand play, cupping his cheek. His short-cropped beard felt soft against the pads of her fingers and she stroked up his strong jawline as their tongues tangled. He tasted addictive, his lips warm, soft under her own.

Marshall lifted her up on to his lap and she went willingly, her legs settling either side of his waist. Close like this, she could feel the evidence of his desire for her  _ right _ where she needed that sweet friction. She heard a quiet moan in the room and realised belatedly that it came from her own lips.

His hands wandered to the hem of her serviceable sweater, his fingers skimming under the fabric to stroke the band of exposed skin above her jeans, below her t-shirt. She shivered, but not from the cold. How long had it been since a man had touched her with such reverence? 

Marshall must have understood that her little tremble was from pleasure because he continued his gentle exploration, sliding one hand up under her t-shirt, one finger tracing the edge of the cup of her bra. Everything inside her tightened, the feeling unfamiliar, deliciously welcome.

“Don’t stop there,” she whispered.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly that video where Henry explains Geralt's sword is giving me LIFE.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things progress between Marshall & Rosie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT ENSUES.
> 
> Thanks to my glorious beta, @ly--canthrope!

“Wasn’t planning on it.” His voice had taken on a gruff sweetness that she wanted to dive right into. She took a quick breath against his mouth and his talented fingers slipped under the cup of her bra, brushing the sensitive underside of her breast. Her nipple tightened and she gasped against his lips.

Marshall shifted position underneath her and she felt, again, the hard line of his erection. Desire pooled in her belly, thick and hot and after all this time, so welcome. She nipped at his full bottom lip as he explored her. He kept his other hand in a gentlemanly position on her stomach and inwardly she smiled - whether he consciously knew it or not he was giving her time to adjust, and that just made her want him more.

Bold now, trusting him, Rosie pushed him back on the futon, breaking the kiss, straddling his hips. Marshall gazed up at her, his pupils blown with lust. He left his hands on the cover of the futon, letting her take control.

She bent and kissed him again, harder this time, letting him know what she wanted. His tongue danced with hers and Rosie pushed up the hem of the moss coloured sweater, warm from his big body, the material worn and soft. He wore a serviceable white t-shirt underneath and, impatient, she shoved that up as well, spreading her palms on warm skin, lightly furred with an arrow of dark hair that led right down under the belt of his dark denim jeans.

God, he’s built. Rosie knew a moment of disquiet at what he’d think of her own body, and then Marshall half-sat up and pulled the sweater and t-shirt over his head, and then she quite forgot to think anything at all. 

Greedily she drank him in with her gaze as he lay down, his eyes watchful, silently letting her look her fill.

“This is not really how I expected my day to end,” she managed, touching the warm skin of his chest, feeling his heart beat under her palms.

“What did you expect?”

“A book, a cuddle with Salami, maybe some painting.” She breathed him in. “But this is much better.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up. “For me too.” He guided her down so their lips met again, kissing her as if he’d never get enough of her taste. The edge of desperation in his kiss made something thrill inside Rosie - it’d been a long time since she’d been, or felt, wanted like this. “I want to touch more of you,” he bit off between kisses, his hands easing up the hem of her sweater.

Rosie let him pull it up and her t-shirt came with it. Once he’d relieved her of them they joined his clothes on the floor with barely a whisper of sound, unmissed. Marshall’s hands were hot on the small of her back as they lay tangled together. He was hard and ready **,** even through the rough, thick fabric of his jeans and instinctively Rosie moved against him as they kissed, drawing a needy moan from his lips.

She could listen to him make that sound forever.

His hands played over the clasp on the back of her bra. “Can I ...?”

“Yeah.”

The clasp opened and she let him slide the garment off and down her arms to join the growing pile on the floor, and then rolled her on to her back and his mouth was right there where she wanted and needed it, his short beard brushing pleasantly over her sensitive skin as his tongue worked each nipple in turn, licking and sucking and making her writhe just to get closer to the welcoming heat of his body. She tugged him closer, her hands making a decision of their own and unclasping his belt. Her fingertips brushed his police badge, the metal slightly warmed from being against his waist all day. The leather separated and she felt his erection jerk impatiently against the fly of his jeans as the back of her hands brushed him. Eager, she slipped buttons out of their eyelets and was rewarded with the warm, soft fabric of black boxers.

“Fuck, Rosie,” he murmured against her breast. The expletive sounded dirtier in his British accent.

“Yes, please,” she replied politely.

He chuckled against her skin, his breath whisper-warm. The chuckle quickly turned into a sharp inhale when she freed him from his boxers, fingers encircling him, stroking, exploring. She learned what he liked, tightening her hand just so, twisting her wrist. He felt like steel in velvet against her palm **,** and within a few moments he was thrusting into her hand, his breaths ragged on her skin.

“Let’s get the rest of these clothes off,” he mumbled, sitting up to divest himself of everything left. He turned his attention to Rosie, gently stripping off her sensible work shoes, trousers and panties, until she sat, naked to his gaze.

“Beautiful.”

The unadorned word, spoken softly in his enchanting voice, pierced right to the heart of her, and she snuggled into his arms, his heart beating under her ear. I could stay like this forever, she thought for a moment, then mentally pushed it away. Thoughts like those about a man she’d known only a few hours were dangerous.

Not wanting to dwell on that, she pulled him down on top of her. The futon creaked pleasantly in a way it never did when she slept alone. Marshall brushed his lips over hers and she sank her hand into his thick, dark curls as he positioned himself right where she wanted him. The tip of his erection nudged her inner thigh, and the anticipation of pleasure curled tight in her belly, a tinderbox ready for the flame.

“I’m ready,” she whispered against his mouth. It was so long since she’d done this. She wanted to know it would be okay, that she knew what to do, that-

“Not yet. Soon.” And Marshall dropped another kiss on her mouth before moving down her body. Her pulse rabbited when he spread her legs with firm but gentle hands. His beard tickled below her navel, and she thought oh God, I should have shaved-

And then once again he made her lose the ability to think at all. God only knew where he’d learned to do that with his tongue, but as he stroked and licked, holding her tremblings legs, the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter at her apex. “Marshall,” she begged, hoping he’d somehow know what to do.

He did. One, two tight curls of his tongue just _there_ and Rosie came in a heated rush, muscles contracting hard around the fingers he’d slid inside her.

He eased her down from the explosive orgasm and then held her, gathering her against the wall of his chest. Rosie buried her nose in the sprinkling of dark, coarse hair there and breathed him in, enjoying the way he took up space in her bed.

“I’m ready now,” she sighed, happily.

Marshall made a hmmm sound deep in his chest. “I don’t have a condom.” At her look of surprise, he added, “Believe it or not, I don’t make a habit of sleeping with women after I walk them home.”

She glanced down at the evidence that while he’d almost made her head explode, he hadn’t experienced the same pleasure. Marshall shrugged, a quicksilver grin scribbling over his handsome face. “Rest assured, I enjoyed myself.”

Rosie hesitated. Dylan would have insisted - passive aggressively - that she do something to finish him off. That Marshall seemed happy just to hold her without pushing his own agenda blindsided her - but in a good way.

Fate had thrown this wonderful man in her path, and if she never saw him again after tonight, she’d damn well ensure that his memory of her was a fantastic one.

“Maybe you’ll let me have a little fun, too?” Before he could reply, she cuddled up into him, sliding her palm down to circle his girth with her hand, stroking him slowly at first, re-learning the rhythm he liked, listening to the catch in his breath. His eyes drifted closed, dark lashes long against his high cheekbones. Beautiful, she thought as she worked him, watching his fist clench in the bedsheet.

“Rosie.” He ground out her name and she leant over, capturing the last syllable in a kiss as he spilled into her hand. The low growl in his throat was the sexiest thing she’d heard from a man in a very long time.

She held him through the little aftershocks, pressing a kiss to his jaw. After a few moments he stood, padded to the bathroom, and she stretched out on the futon, not quite believing what had happened. And who it had happened with.

Marshall came out of the tiny bathroom, his shoulders almost filling the doorway. He bent to pick up his jeans, and Rosie held out a hand.

“Stay?”

He hesitated. “You want me to?”

“I doubt you get much downtime. You can maximise sleep time here.”

His brow winged up. “I don’t sleep so good.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” She patted the pillow next to her. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, only that she really didn’t want him to go.

Salami hopped up on the bed. Rosie laughed. “Oh - the cat sleeps here sometimes.”

Marshall smiled slightly. “Seems fair. He was here first.” He crossed the room, his fingers hesitating on the switch for her little lamp. “You’re sure?”

“I am.”

Their eyes met across the room and then he pressed the switch. The only light in the room came from the window in her kitchen area. Moonlight splintered in between the cloud cover. Marshall padded back to the futon and slipped under the covers, and, after a moment’s hesitation, gathered her close. 

Rosie went willingly, snuggling under his arm. Salami kneaded the foot of the bed, purring, and then settled down between Rosie’s ankles.

“Is Marshall your first name?” Rosie asked into the darkness.

But his breathing had already evened out into sleep. She smiled against his shoulder and let her eyes close, and she, too, slept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smutty and angsty morning time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thanking my beta, the lovely @ly--canthrope !

The heady scent of freshly brewing coffee stirred Rosie, and she blinked, disorientated. How long since she'd slept that well - deeply and dreamlessly?

She sat up in bed, rubbing a hand over her face. The pillow beside hers was empty.

Had Marshall-

"Coffee?"

He appeared from behind the partition wall which hid the kitchenette, holding two mismatched mugs. His hair curled wildly, and he wore his black boxers and nothing else. His lightly furred chest made desire stir in her belly again.

"Yes please." She took the mug from him, shying away a bit when their fingers brushed, which she knew was ridiculous. They'd done much more than touch hands, last night.

"Listen-"

"I know that-"

They both spoke at the same time. Looking sheepish, Marshall rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"You first," Rosie said, playing for time.

"Thanks for last night," he eventually said, after a sip of the hot, black brew.

Rosie arched a brow. "Is this where you say thanks, and you had fun, but you don't do relationships?"

He looked stricken for a second, sat down on the bed.

Rosie wouldn't be deterred, though. "I'm a big girl, Detective. I didn't start dreaming of white picket fences and naming babies just because you gave me the best orgasm I've had in years."

She heard herself too late and looked away sharply.

"Rosie."

He said her name so gently, and it sounded beautiful in his accent. She looked up, embarrassed to her core. She'd forgotten never to speak before she'd drunk at least half a cup of coffee.

"Police work is hell on relationships."

He looked like he spoke from experience. Her heart squeezed.

“I didn’t say I wanted one.” Her words sounded hollow to her own ears, but she had to protect herself. The moment she’d asked him to step over her threshold, she’d known it’d likely be sex. No more, no less. Was it true that humans were biologically programmed to fall in love with whoever they copulated with? Or some romantic myth?

“Rosie-”

God, she loved and hated how her name sounded in his voice. Melodic. She pushed off the bed. “I need a shower.” She dumped the half-finished coffee on the table that doubled as a painting desk and eating space and headed for the bathroom without looking at him.

_I wish he’d go._

_I wish he’d stay._

She put the shower on hot, and, still naked from last night, stepped under the spray. She tilted her face up to the water, then heard movement. Marshall stood on the other side of the glass, silent, something sad in his blue, blue eyes. 

Because he looked as if he was about to leave, she reached around the edge of the glass, grabbed sank her hand into his hair and kissed him softly. “Come in.”

He shed his boxers and followed her under the spray. Thankfully the shower cubicle was the largest thing in the tiny bathroom. Marshall dominated the space as he banded his arms around her, pulling her close, and she felt the drum-drum of his heart as they kissed. He tasted dark and bitter, of coffee and goodbyes, and she hugged him close, trying to say without words that she’d never forget the warm weight of him next to her in bed, the feel of his hair curling between her fingers, the catch in his breath as he’d orgasmed.

“I thought you didn’t sleep so good,” she whispered against his mouth.

His brow winged up. “Evidently **,** a night with you was what I needed.” He bent forward until their foreheads touched under the heated spray. The gesture was so sweet that it completely disarmed her, and the backs of Rosie’s eyes burned. _Don’t go_ was on the tip of her tongue.

Instead, she released him and reached for her bergamot shower gel, squeezing some into her palm. The thought of him smelling like her, hers, just for a day, made something fierce rear up inside her.

She rubbed her hands together and slid them up into his hair. Marshall dipped his head obediently and Rosie worked her fingers into his curls. The rush of water meant words would be next to useless, and she liked the silence.

He rinsed his hair afterwards and turned her, washing hers. Rosie let him take care of her, desire arrowing straight to her centre at the feel of him hot, hard and ready against the small of her back.

As the water cascaded over her, cleaning the shampoo residue off her hair, Rosie leant into Marshall as his hands cupped her breasts, teasing the nipples to hardness. He let his right hand play, slid his left down her body to where she was slick with want. She gasped as he rubbed her in ever-decreasing circles, learning how she liked to be touched, how fast, how gentle. She came on a sharp exhale, her body bowing against his in an orgasm almost more memorable than last night’s.

Rosie turned in Marshall’s arms, her hands immediately going to his erection. He caught her wrist, met her gaze.

 _Don’t have to,_ his blue eyes said.

This man and his puppy dog face. She rolled her eyes. He grinned. Her heart skipped a beat.

Slicking her hands with a little more shower gel - the smell of bergamot would never be the same again - she got to work, fisting him with one hand, cupping his balls with the other, savouring the way his eyes drifted closed. He braced one large hand on the shower wall behind her, kept the other on her hip as she handled him. Rosie watched his face, watched him bite his lower lip as he got close, and hell if it wasn’t one of the hottest experiences of her life.

He bit off her name and she stroked faster, harder, twisting her wrist.

“Fuck.” He spilled over her hand in a hot rush, the muscles of his belly clenching as he thrust into her hand. His breathing came raggedly as he gathered her close, dropping his head and pressing his face into the curve of her neck. 

He reached behind her, shut the water off, grabbed a couple of towels from the rail under the sink and passed her one.

Rosie took it, rubbing it over her dripping-wet hair. Her body half-shivered in post-coital bliss.

“You fell asleep last night before I could ask you. Is Marshall your first name?”

He scrubbed the towel over his face. Droplets of water ran down his chest. “No.”

“What _is_ your first name?” she wrapped the towel around her, tucking it in just under her right arm. Steam from their long shower floated in the air around their bodies.

“Walter.”

“That’s….. Not what I expected.”

He chuckled. “My brother’s called Charles - Well, Charlie, mostly. I think I pulled the short straw.”

She gazed at him for a moment, and then an alarm sounded from the living area, and whatever moment they’d been having was broken.

Marshall secured the towel around his hips and bent to his jeans, retrieving his cell phone. Whatever he saw on it made that stony look appear back on his face. “I’ve got to go.”

“I know.” She hugged the towel to her. Salami jumped down from the futon and rubbed up against her leg, sensing her discomfort. “Thanks again.”

“It’s…” Indecision paraded over his face, then he dropped the towel and crossed to her in three strides, yanking her close and kissing her fiercely, holding her with a gentleness that suggested he thought she might break. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”

From across the room, his cell phone complained again. He let Rosie go, then dressed methodically **;** boxers, socks, jeans, hip holster, boots, t-shirt, parka. He shoved the phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

Rosie busied herself feeding Salami and brushing her hair. The last thing she needed was to be caught mooning like a teenager. She glanced over to see him fit the Glock snugly into his hip holster, and then he stood by her front door, smelling like her shower gel, sadness ghosting around his mouth. 

“Goodbye, Marshall,” she said softly. Her pride made her stay rooted to the spot by her bed, hairbrush in hand.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a hot second, and she almost said, _stay, stay and kiss me again,_ but she kept her lips still and silent, and he nodded once, the movement so small it was almost imperceptible, and opened her door and then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WALTER? Are you kidding me, is what I thought when I found this out. There's no bigger smut killer. Well, maybe Tarquin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall left something of his behind at Rosie's place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanking my beta @ly--canthrope !

_Fuck_. He’d left his jumper behind.

“Sweater, Dad,” Faye would remind him. Thank Christ she wasn’t here to see him leaving a relative stranger’s apartment at seven-thirty a.m after some steaming hot sex. He hadn’t been inside Rosie and yet **,** last night and this morning had blown his mind.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done was leave her standing there, skin still half-damp and warm from their shower, hair waving around her face, looking infinitely kissable.

It was cold outside, Winter hanging onto New York by its teeth, not quite done eating. Marshall walked briskly to his precinct, ignoring the subway. He needed the exercise, needed to get the sexy brunette out of his system before the team update in an hour’s time.

He still couldn’t believe how well he’d slept beside her on that lumpy futon. At some point he’d woken in the wee hours to her curled up next to him, the curve of her ass snuggled into him, trustingly. He’d breathed in the scent of her hair and drifted back into sleep, content. That was mostly unknown to him - he rarely fell back asleep if he woke from a restless dream.

No dreams when he’d slept beside Rosie.

His chirping phone had been a message from the precinct. They had a sketch of the infamous “Whiskers” - so dubbed because he’d left a crayon drawing of a simplistic cat’s face with whiskers at each crime scene.

Marshall huffed angrily as he thought it over. The media could be his best tool and worst enemy - often multiple times in a single day. But when they got a hold of something, they gnawed it like a dog with a favourite bone, and Whiskers was the current media favourite.

For a change, he - or she - wasn’t the usual flavour of criminal the media favoured. Whiskers had only burgled houses and apartments so far. Not that burglary could be ignored, but Marshall far preferred it to having the evidence techs scrape the remains of someone off the cold, bloody pavement.

Apparently one of the beat officers had gotten lucky, meeting someone who claimed to have seen a white man, mid-thirties, leaving the building where later, missing items and a cat doodle had been reported.

Marshall quickened his pace, wanting to find out more, and feeling the cold due to having left his jumper behind.

He wished he’d swallowed his pride and asked Rosie for her number. Both to get the garment back and to see her again.

Unbidden, an image of her naked save for his jumper, which would swallow her, pushed itself to the front of his mind. It’d smell of her, bergamot and sugar; addictive and heady. 

And deep down he’d been afraid that if he’d allowed himself one more taste, he might have tumbled back into bed with her and prayed never to surface.

He swung angrily into the precinct, hoping he didn’t look like hell or smell too much like women’s shower gel. His colleagues would have a field day.

*******

Rosie left for work earlier than usual and stopped by Police Plaza, Marshall’s cosy, moss green sweater in a bag. Had she considered keeping it, sleeping in it, stuffing her pillow inside it and cuddling it all day so she smelled like him?

Yeah. Multiple times.

She’d dithered over what to do for a whole half hour, before getting sick of herself. Grow up, Rosie, she’d chastised herself. She’d scrabbled around in a draw, finally finding a napkin from her deli. She’d scribbled _you forgot this, R x_ on the napkin and stuffed it inside the garment, refusing to think about it further.

She scooped her hair into a bun, fussed over Salami and fed him half a can of tuna, his favourite treat, then caught the subway. The air knived into her lungs, icy cold. The ride was crowded, people in suits jostling with the rhythm of the carriage. She was hot and bothered by the time the train stopped where she needed to go. Checking her watch, she climbed the steps and pushed through the doors.

The Plaza was the only place she could think of to return the sweater. She didn’t know which precinct Marshall worked at, and she didn’t know if asking for that information over the phone was allowed. 

And she also didn’t want to turn up at his precinct like a stalker, or a weirdo who didn’t understand that him leaving without her number probably meant that he didn’t want to see her again. It splintered her heart, thinking that, but it was what it was. _I am a big girl,_ she told herself. _I’ve survived much worse than this._

The officer on duty at the reception desk smiled as Rosie approached with the bag.

“Morning ma’am, how can I help you?”

Rosie smiled back, trying to fight the instinct to hold on to a piece of the man who’d rocked her world last night, and again this morning.

“I, ah, have this sweater that belongs to Detective Walter Marshall. I’m… not sure which precinct he works out of, so I thought I’d, er, drop it here.”

The officer worked to keep her face bland, but Rosie caught the tamped down amusement in her voice when she replied, “Sure, ma’am, I’ll make sure he gets it.” She held her hands out for the bag.

Rosie hesitated for a split second. Should she take out the napkin? He’d know it was from her.

But she couldn’t bring herself to remove it. He’d see it and think of her, and after what they’d shared, was it wrong for her to want him to remember her, now and then, perhaps during a quiet moment at the end of a long day?

She let the bag go, thanked the officer, and walked out of Police Plaza and out of Detective Walter Marshall’s life.

*******

Work passed slowly. Had he collected the sweater? Would they even deliver it today?

Rosie blew out a breath as she delivered sandwiches to customers in the deli, half missing Marshall terribly, and half wishing she’d never invited him in.

It was a relief when Rachael walked in. An FBI profiler who often worked with the NYPD, Rachael had become a regular in the two months Rosie had worked at the deli. She always ordered two sandwiches; one chopped cheese and one roast beef on rye, extra tomatoes. Over the weeks, she’d stay, have a coffee while the sandwiches were made. If her visits coincided with Rosie’s break, they’d occasionally chat.

Having a female friend was nice. Rosie missed her sister, but Dahlia would never leave their small home town. She was a home bird through and through, but phone calls only did so much. Rosie had missed the company of her sister and Midwestern friends more than she'd imagined, when she’d upped sticks and left Dylan.

Without knowing it, Rachael was one of the high points of her day, so she was glad of a little lull when the gorgeous brunette came in, wearing a sharp suit and smelling floral.

“Hey, Rosie.”

“Rachael!”

Rosie moved out from behind the counter to greet the other woman. Rachael always looked so put together, razor sharp in her well cut blazer and high ponytail. “How're things?”

Rachael shrugged. “A million miles a minute, as usual. But, can’t complain. Profiling keeps things interesting, you know? Get to work different cases.”

“I bet it is interesting,” Rosie replied, genuinely wanting to know more.

Rachael tilted her head to one side. Rosie knew that look. Rachael had been an NYPD therapist in a past life and it showed. “Something’s different about you.”

Panic scrambled up Rosie’s spine. “Really?”

“For sure. You look sort of… glowy. You feeling all right?”

Rosie smoothed a hand down her apron. “Had an eventful evening,” she managed, hoping the vagueness wasn’t indicative of the fact she’d had the best orgasms of her life to date.

“Wanna talk about it?”

God, did she ever. “Um…. maybe later?”

“Sure.” Concern creased Rachael’s face. Fortunately, at that moment a few men pushed through the doors, and Rosie went back to business. 

“Your usual?”

Rachael smiled, recognising that she wasn’t going to get anything out of Rosie right now. “Sure, thanks. And a coffee while you make it? No hurry.” She tugged a smooth, square-edge business card from her pocket and pressed it into Rosie’s hand. “If you want to talk. About anything.”

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS MEANT TO BE A 3-PARTER AT MOST
> 
> **crying**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beauty of a beta, @ly--canthrope

“Sketch is going on tonight’s news.” Rachael put the wrapped roast beef on rye sandwich down on Marshall’s desk. “And the police plaza have a parcel for you. Can you stop by on the way home tonight?”

Marshall glanced at his watch - a traditional-faced timepiece he’d been given by his father. He wasn’t a fan of digital watches or their even newer children, fitbits and the like. “Sure." It would likely be some dry as sawdust paperwork. "Thanks for lunch.” He reached for his wallet, but Rachael waved him off. “You can buy next time.”

She took a seat in his visitor chair - the visitor chairs in the precinct were easily the most uncomfortable pieces of furniture known to man - and unwrapped her own sandwich, the famed New York Chopped Cheese.

The noise she made biting into it could have conjured sensual images, but Marshall found himself thinking of Rosie.

Fuck. He should've taken his jumper and her phone number, but he had no idea how to find her again, except hanging out by her apartment building, which was way too creepy. Maybe he could put a note in her letterbox. Was that creepy too?

His phone chirped and he pulled it from his pocket.

**FAYE:** Don't forget mom's dropping me off to your place tonight. Pizza party!

He smiled to himself. His daughter's appetite for pizza was unrivalled.

"Faye?" Rachael asked, smiling.

"Yep. Pizza party at my place tonight." He'd better make sure it smelled halfway decent, and he needed to change the sheets as she'd be bunking in his bed while he had the sofa. 

"How is she?"

He lifted a shoulder as he chewed a bite of the sandwich. Rachael's favourite deli made fantastic lunches. "Typical thirteen year old. Thirteen going on thirty. Talking to boys on Snapchat." He shuddered, exacerbating it for effect.

"Not boys!" Rachael said in mock horror.

Marshall glared at her. "Your time will come."

"Not too soon if I can help it." She finished her sandwich, balled up the wrapper with the deli logo printed on it. "I've got a meeting in a few. Have fun with Faye tonight; say hi from me."

"Sure."

He finished his own sandwich, washed it down with a swallow of cold coffee and winced. The glamour of police work.

He texted Faye back:

**DAD** : Looking forward to it.

*****

He was owed some personal time, so he drove to the Police Plaza after a dry couple of hours of paperwork. The sketch would be airing on local news soon, and hopefully, someone would bite. A lot of catching criminals involved slow, methodical work. Satisfying, sometimes boring. Well, usually boring, actually.

He climbed the steps. Officer Taylor was at the reception desk. He'd spoken to her a few times for one thing or another during his time with NYPD. 

"Hey, Marshall." Hardly anyone used his first name anymore. Although since yesterday, he'd found himself wondering how it might sound in Rosie's voice. 

"Hi. How's it going?"

Taylor shrugged, smiling tiredly. "Same shit, different day."

They chuckled together.

"I hear you have a parcel for me?"

"Yep." Tucking wisps of her blonde hair back behind an ear, Taylor stood and scanned the cubbyholes below the reception desk. "Here we go. Woman dropped it off early this morning."

His heart thumped. "Can you remember what she looked like?"

Taylor raised a brow. "I might sit behind a desk, but I'm still a cop. Pretty, about my height, wavy brown hair, thick winter coat, sturdy shoes."

Rosie.

He took the bag. Peered inside. His jumper sat neatly folded, something white peeking out of one of the folds. He lifted it out, saw her loopy writing and the deli logo.

Well, shit. How long had he been eating roast beef on rye from the deli she worked at? Even New York was a village, sometimes.

He checked his watch. He had time to stop by the deli and thank her before Faye got dropped off for their pizza party. If he was unlucky, she'd want to give him one of her homemade face masks too. He'd smelled cucumber around his flat for three days after the last time.

"Thanks, Taylor."

"No problem." There was a curious glint in her sharp gaze, but either she knew better than go ask, or she knew that getting information out of Marshall was like getting blood from a stone.

He got back into his police-issued vehicle and drove the few blocks to the deli. Inside was a hub of activity. A dozen tables, most of which were full, held people of all ages and a smorgasbord of sandwiches, soup and hot drinks. The tv was on above the order counter and he recognised the local news anchor. The sketch might be about to air.

Pushing through the doors, welcome warmth hit him, along with the enticing scents of toasted bread and roasted meat. 

He spied Rosie almost right away, delivering a pair of club sandwiches to an older couple by the far window. She spoke animatedly to them, and Marshall imagined, fondly, what it might be like to enjoy her brightness every day. It made a pang of longing strike his heart.

She turned towards the order counter.

"Hey Rosie, turn it up, would ya?" One of the customers asked. "It's about that cat burglar."

"I got it," one of the other deli staff replied, fishing a remote from his apron pocket.

Rosie glanced up at the tv, as did everyone else in the building. The sketch played on screen. There were the usual murmurs from some patrons, whereas others ignored the broadcast. 

Not Rosie, though. She stared at up the screen, and the round serving tray dropped clean from her hands, smashing an empty glass tumbler on the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out why Rosie was stunned by the TV. Distance grows between Rosie and Marshall.

Rosie stared up the TV screen in horror. Eight months. Eight months in New York and her life was suddenly unravelling all around her.

“Rosie.”

She turned, seeing Marshall by the doorway. How wonderful that he’d been there to witness the glass smashing; her mouth opening and closing like a fish left out of water for too long.

He crossed to her, tiny fragments of glass crunching under his heavy work boots. She looked up into his blue, blue eyes and wondered how it felt like days, not hours, since she’d stood under a hot spray with him, touched him intimately, heard the catch in his breath as he came.

“Are you okay?” he cupped her elbows. Rosie glanced around. No one was looking at them; everyone still engrossed in the news story told by the classically pretty anchor on the screen.

“I….”

Suddenly the news finished and just like that, someone pressed an invisible PLAY button on everyone in the diner.

“Rosie! Jesus, you okay?” Her fellow server, Arlo, came over with a dustpan and broom. “What happened?”

“I - low blood pressure.” She closed her eyes momentarily. It wasn’t a lie to say that she felt faint. Faint was a kind word for what she felt. “Happens, sometimes.”

She felt Marshall and Arlo’s eyes on her. What were they thinking? Right now, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Marshall drew his coat back; flashed the badge of his belt. “NYPD - Rosie’s a friend. I’ll take her outside for some air.”

“Sure. I’ll get this.” Arlo gestured with the broom. 

Rosie sent him a grateful smile. Arlo’s cheeks flushed briefly, and then he bent to his task. 

With a last glance back to her colleague, Rosie stepped over the scattering of glass, and Marshall pushed the door open. The cold air whipped in, and he shrugged out of his thick black parka and wrapped it around her shoulders, leading her around the deli so they wouldn’t be in view of the windows.

Inside, the news report had finished and the patrons went back to the business of eating, gossiping, drinking coffee, bitching about the cabs in New York.

Rosie couldn’t help it; she snuggled into Marshall’s coat, into the scent of black coffee, warm bread, and cedarwood.

His blue, blue eyes searched hers as he fairly towered over her. The wind whipped at her hair, pulling stray locks from her messy bun. 

“What happened in there?”

Hesitation made her bite her lip. His gaze followed the movement, and despite what had just happened, a jolt of heat speared her and she thought of this morning.

“The sketch on the TV. It’s of my ex-husband.”

Marshall’s brows rose, but other than that he gave no other indication of surprise. She guessed the police had to be good at that - a decent poker face was surely Detective 101.

“You’re sure.” 

“Of course I’m sure, Walter, I was married to him.”

Something passed over his handsome face, his expression unreadable. Finally **,** he folded his arms over his broad chest. A stray curl of his hair flopped over his face and she stuffed her hands in the pocket of her apron to stop the urge to stroke it back into place.

“He’s who we think is responsible for a spate of robberies in the city.”

“Really.”

“Really.” He held her gaze. She deliberately didn’t look away. She had nothing to hide. “Rosie, I’m going to need you to come into the precinct, help me out with some questions.”

Alarm threaded through her, but she swallowed; lifted her chin. “Not now.”

“No. Tomorrow?”

“It’s my day off.” The thought of spending it with law enforcement didn’t make her feel great, but what alternative was there? 

“Good.” He reached into his back pocket, tugged out a small green notebook and pencil, flipped the cover open to reveal dog-eared pages. “I can be free at ten. Ask for me when you arrive at the station.”

Rosie swallowed, and nodded. “Fine.”

They stood opposite each other like two strangers who hadn’t spent a searing, orgasmic night together. A cab sailed past, the driver leaning on the horn to complain about a tourist jaywalking, and Rosie startled.

Marshall gently gripped her shoulder. “You okay?”

Not at all. “Sure.” She glanced inside. Arlo had finished sweeping up the mess she’d made. “I need to get back to work.” She shrugged his coat off her shoulders.

“Keep it.” 

“No, no, thanks.” It felt too personal now. This morning she imagined she’d probably never see him again, now she’d see him tomorrow for reasons that made her sick to her stomach. “I’ve got a coat to go home in.”

He took it from her, his blue eyes unfathomable, his mouth a stern, serious line in his strong, bearded jaw. “Thanks. For returning the jumper.”

“You’re welcome.”

“See you tomorrow,” he said gruffly, and then he held open the deli door for her. Heat curled out, reaching for her, and Rosie stepped inside.

When she looked back, he’d gone.

  


******

  


A pang of guilt settled in Marshall’s stomach, sour, as he opened the door to his apartment. It was clean, but no one would ever accuse the space of being homely or comforting. It was somewhere he came to shower, eat, sleep, and if he missed female company, jack off. That was all.

But sometimes, like tonight, it hosted pizza parties.

He eyed the couch as Faye dumped her overnight stuff in his bedroom. The lumpy cushions wouldn’t be kind to him, but he didn’t feel particularly tired. He hadn’t lied to Rosie this morning in the shower; he’d slept better last night than he had in months.

Maybe longer.

“Ready to order, Dad?” Faye plopped down on the couch, automatically reaching for the throw he kept there just for her. She loved to be warm, and whether that warmth came from his towelling robe, an oversized jumper, or a throw, didn’t matter. He gazed at her for a moment and remembered cradling her in his arms at three a.m, a silent newborn with big, watchful blue eyes, looking at him as if he held all the secrets to the universe.

He felt he’d failed her, sometimes.

“Sure.” He snagged a menu from the drawer in the creaky coffee table and passed it to her. “Hawaiian?” he asked, deliberately making a face, because she knew what he thought of pineapple.

“You know it,” she grinned. “Wanna share?”

“Christ, no.”

She laughed delightedly. Something around Marshall’s heart eased. There was a time, after things had gone south with her mother, that he’d worried that Faye would never smile or laugh again. But she was stronger than he gave her credit for. “You choose.”

He took the menu from her and she leaned against his shoulder. She smelled of something overly sweet - teenage spray perfume from the drugstore, no doubt. “What do you think I should have? You’ll eat half of it anyway.”

She grinned up at him. “Nothing with slimy mushrooms.”

He called the order in on his phone. Faye wrinkled her nose as he hung up. “Dad, what did we decide about you getting a TV?”

He frowned. “That I don’t need one?”

“What kind of Dad doesn’t have a TV?”

His mood sank like a stone thrown into a deep, listless pond. “The kind that works in the police.” Then he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

She cuddled into him again, the throw around her shoulders, her eyes big in her heart-shaped face. That look in her gaze could bring him to his knees. “What’s up?”

He drew in a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”

Faye rolled her eyes and sighed in a way that only a teenage girl could. “Yeah. That’s what adults say when they don’t want to tell kids stuff.”

Fuck, she was right. “Okay, okay.” He held a hand up in mock surrender. “I think I met someone.”

Her excited squeal was interrupted by the doorbell, and he stood up to receive the pizza. So much for playing it cool with Rosie. It had been twelve hours since he’d left her apartment and here he was, spilling his guts to a thirteen year old.

Smooth.

And of course, there was no guarantee that Rosie would want to be anywhere near him, after they talked tomorrow.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall interviews Rosie on what she knows.

It wasn’t how Rosie had imagined spending her day off. A bit of painting, reading, cuddles with Salami while Winter wreaked its worst on the city that never slept.

The officers were so nice to her. They brought her coffee and let her wait in a comfortable chair. The atmosphere in the station was bustling, but not unfriendly. The air smelled of yesterday’s pizza, doughnuts, and strong coffee.

At ten minutes past ten, Marshall came through a doorway to her left. He wore a different jumper - grey-blue, complimenting his eyes. She wondered if he had a wife who dressed him and felt a sour pang of guilt. They hadn’t even gotten that far the night before last. But a kernel of hope nestled inside her that he wouldn’t have omitted something like that.

His gaze flew to hers. His mouth was drawn in a grim, sober line.

“Ms Dawes?”

_ Oh, it’s going to be like that? _

“Detective Marshall.” She stood.

“Thanks for coming in.” He offered his hand, like she was a stranger and they were meeting for the first time.

Rosie hesitated, then shook hands with him. Her skin tingled, her body recalling the electric touch of his hands, the way he’d made her into a living tinderbox with just a few strokes, a few hot glances of that blue, blue gaze.

She broke the handshake. “Can I speak to you?”

He inclined his head. “Of course; that’s why you’re here.”

“Not that. First, I just want a word where no one can overhear.”

His brows raised briefly, and then he nodded. “In here.”

He led her to a door that read CAPTAIN’S OFFICE. It stood empty. Marshall closed the heavy door behind them with a quiet click, then pulled a cord to draw the blinds. His hair curled wildly, wayward strands tangling. She itched to plunge her hands into the soft mass.

“What is it?”

Rosie searched his face for a moment. “Just tell me. Is there a woman in your life that you betrayed by sleeping with me?”

“No.” he held her gaze, those blue eyes expressionless. “I have a daughter, but I’m divorced.”

She smiled weakly, her knees almost giving in at the relief. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he seemed unconvinced, his British accent more clipped than usual. “So… we’re fine?”

Her heart clenched. “Is there even a “we”?”

He looked away for a moment, but his chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Rosie…”

“No, I get it.” She turned, reached for the door handle. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Marshall gripped her wrist, stopping her, gently. She could have easily broken the hold, but she chose not to, waiting.

“I’ve been here before, Rosie, and all it got me was heartbreak.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“If we do that again…. I don’t think I’d ever stop wanting you.”

Desire flared low in her body at his softly spoken words, the heat in his ocean blue eyes.

“Marshall….”

A sharp knock sounded on the door and they jerked apart. “Room’s all set up,” one of the officers called through.

Rosie nodded. “We should go.”

Marshall held open the door for her. A muscle in his teeth ticked as he watched her walk through, and she wondered, only for a second, what on earth he must have been thinking. But she didn’t look back to try and find out.

He led her to another door, down a plain, strip-lit corridor, gestured for her to go inside. She’d seen this kind of room on TV. A big mirror took up almost one entire wall. A wide table sat in the centre, three chairs, two on one side, one on another. 

Marshall held out a chair for her; facing the mirror, and took the opposite side himself.

He stated the date, his name, and hers, then flipped open the notebook he carried habitually in his back pocket.

“Let’s start with the sketch, shall we? You recognised him. Can you tell me again how you know him?”

Rosie set her ringless hands on the table, stared at her own short, unpainted nails. “I was married to him.”

Marshall scribbled something short in his notebook, pencil moving smoothly. “And his name?”

“Dylan Taylor.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Separated.”

A curl came loose from Marshall’s hair as he leaned over a little more, writing again. If it had happened at her apartment, when they’d been…. Well, when things had been  _ different, _ she’d have smoothed it back into place.

Now, she kept her hands where he could see them.

“How long for?”

“About a year, now.”

He raised a brow, wrote something else. “Amicable?”

“What do you think?” she bit out, then sighed. “Sorry. No. Not amicable. I left him.”

“Can I ask why?”

Rosie went to worry her wedding ring, but of course, it wasn’t there. “Irreconcilable differences.”

Marshall pinned her with those blue, blue eyes. “Such as?”

“He thought flirting outrageously with other women in front of me was all right; I didn’t.”

Marshall’s gaze darkened.  _ To be loved by a man like this, _ Rosie thought, wistfully. A man whose gaze would eat her up. Who would adore her with his whole heart, nothing kept back for himself.

He pressed the pencil down on his notebook page hard, and the lead tip snapped. It was the only indicator of his anger.

“Right.” He cleared his throat; moved the pencil. “And does he know you live here now?”

“Probably. My sister lives in Iowa, still. They might speak.”

“You don’t know?” That steely blue gaze again.

“I don’t ask.”

“Has he tried to contact you?”

Rosie shifted in her chair; the hard metal was not comfortable. “Lately?”

“Ever.”

“Two e-mails, one month after I moved here. It’s been…. Maybe seven months since he contacted me.”

Marshall scribbled something else in his notebook, turned a page. “Did you reply?”

“To the second one, yes - to say I didn’t want to hear from him again. I didn’t get another email, after that.”

“Hmmm. So there’s no reason for him to want to visit you?”

Her brow furrowed. “Certainly not to commit burglaries like this. Dylan’s forte is flirting, not breaking and entering. He’s a lover, not a fighter.”

Marshall opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head, the tiniest movement. He’d been about to ask something personal; she could sense it.

“Would he visit?”

Rosie shrugged. “I doubt it. To see New York, yes, maybe. To see me? What would be the point? Plenty of women in Iowa to flirt with. No need to get on a plane.”

He snorted.

“And did he ever…. Commit any crimes whilst you were married?”

“Only the crime of being a sub-par husband, Detective.”

He smiled grimly, and opened a drawer in the table and took out the sketch she’d seen on the TV. “Can I just confirm, for the record, this is the likeness of Dylan Taylor?”

“As close to him as it could be, without a photograph.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my lovely beta, @ly--canthrope!!

Marshall glanced back over his notes as Rosie sat quietly opposite him. She’d seen enough cop shows - most everyone had, these days - to know that the mirror behind his chair was two way, that someone would be observing. She kept herself almost perfectly still, and if he hadn’t experienced their night together himself, he’d have had trouble reconciling her with the woman he’d shared such passion with.

Well, save her sense of humour. Only the crime of being a sub-par husband.

Marshall drew the picture away. “Please, contact me if he tries to reach you in any way. If you see him, or think you see him.”

She pursed her lips, and Marshall could tell that she doubted very much that her former husband would do so, but she nodded anyway. “Of course.”

“Or…. if your sister says anything to indicate that he’s boarded a plane.”

She nodded again.

Marshall swallowed and forced himself to stay calm. What frustrated him was that he wanted to see the real Rosie. The one who’d tugged her fingers through his hair. The one who’d cornered him just now and asked if he’d betrayed someone. She had all that fire inside. He yearned for it.

“Okay. Thanks for your time, Ms Dawes. I’ll…. Have an officer see you out.”

She touched his hand, just a ghost of her fingertips over his knuckles. “Would you? Walk me out, I mean?”

The promise of spending just a few more moments in her company was impossible to resist, especially when he thought of the alternative - the pile of unappealing paperwork on his desk. “Sure.”

He opened the interview room door and gestured for her to precede him, then he led her through the noisy bullpen and reception area with its row of uncomfortable seating. She shrugged her coat on. 

“Well, it was…. Nice to see you again,” she began politely.

Marshall folded his arms over his chest, holding back a deep sigh. He didn’t want this veneer of politeness, but what choice did he have?

“How old is your daughter?” she asked.

“Thirteen.”

Rosie winced, and Marshall chuckled.

“Difficult age?” she asked sympathetically.

“I think she’s been thirteen since she was about nine,” he groused, but smiled. Thinking of Faye always lightened him, burst his chest with love and pride.

A smile curved Rosie’s lips. “It’s easy to see how much you love her.”

“I-” 

“Marshall?-”

The sound of his name being called by an officer made him glance up. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”

A fleeting sadness reflected in Rosie’s eyes, but she nodded, smiling. “Of course. I hope I was helpful in some way.”

“You were.” What the fuck did he do now? Kissing her cheek wasn’t appropriate. Kissing her mouth was really not appropriate. A handshake was…. What? The mark of strangers. Which they weren’t, not any more.

Not many strangers he wanted the way he wanted Rosie. Just one more kiss. Just one more glide of their bodies against one another.

Fuck.

Rosis made the decision for him, offering her hand. When he offered his back, she clasped it with both of hers, her palms warm and soft. “Goodbye, Detective Marshall.”

“Walter,” he corrected, wanting to hear his name in her voice, not in the stinging, sarcastic way she’d said it earlier, but as if she might say it to a lover. A friend.

“Walter, then.” She released his hand. “I hope you catch him, and I really hope he’s not my ex-husband.”

“Thanks. We’ll do our best.”

“Of course you will. You’re New York’s finest, after all.” 

He buzzed the door release for her, and watched her walk out of his life. When the door closed behind her, he let go of the breath he’d been holding, and crossed the reception area to see what he was needed for in the bullpen.

Will I see her again?

He knew where she worked. Maybe he’d need to get lunch for himself and Rachael tomorrow. He owed her, after all, she usually stepped out for it.

For the first time since things had started to go south with Angie, he felt the smallest fluttering of hope in his chest. Hope that he might enjoy the company of a woman in his life again.

******

Rosie painted for the remainder of her day off. Before she started, she sent her sister, Dahlia, a text.

_Not heard from Dylan lately, have you?_

She set a canvas up, made a big mug of sweet, peppermint tea, and exhaled deeply. The apartment was cosy and warm. Salami curled up in his bed by the kitchen nook, and all was well. She deliberately put the handsome, scowly Detective Marshall out of her mind, and picked up her brushes, determined to paint her mood away. Some people baked. Some people went running; Rosie had always found her salvation in oil paints, brushes and canvas. In the sweep of the brush strokes on the white, white canvas, in the gift that art gave her, the gift to block out anything else happening in the world and just be with the paint.

Salami snored softly, and rain started to patter on the window as she built a world on the canvas. The spiral, stick arms of trees in Winter. The rush of a river. The threatening sky, all moody, grey clouds, heavy with nature’s unshed tears.

Her phone chirped as she took a break to drink her now lukewarm tea. It was a text from her sister.

_Not seen him in town lately. Why’d you ask?_

Rosie read the message a few times. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe he’d got a job a few miles out. Maybe he had a new woman who lived one town over. Maybe he had the flu. Her fingers itched to type a reply, but a new message flew in before she could.

_Missing him?_

Rosie huffed out a breath and replied with an eye-roll emoji. 

_No. Not missing him._

_What, then?_ Her sister replied, quickly.

_It’s nothing to worry about, sis. How’s everything down on the Prairie?_

She smiled to herself, knowing Dahlia would get the joke and snort. She used to always mutter to herself _meanwhile, back at the ranch_ when things got tedious in her small Midwestern town where she lived her small, Midwestern life. 

_Great. Just like always - but you know me, I love nothing to report.x_

Rosie hesitated, with her fingers on the keypad. Should she ask Dahlia to text if she saw Dylan? No. That would only make her sister think Rosie missed married bliss, such as it had been. As if. Even the sex hadn’t been that great at the end.

The memory of Marshall’s wide, talented hands on her body had Rosie sighing. There was a man she’d love the chance to make love to, properly, and at leisure.

Shame she probably wouldn’t see him again. One night stand? Okay. A relationship? She wasn’t ready. And maybe he wasn’t either, if the storm brewing in those baby blues this morning had been any indication. So she’d keep the memory of his hands, that sweet mouth, his soft British accent, close, protect it like she’d protect a photo from daylight, and recall it from time to time. And it’d maybe, maybe be enough.

But she did wish he’d been inside her, just once. It would have been glorious.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall and Rosie meet again.

“Hey, Rosie!”

Rosie turned at the warm greeting from her manager, Christie. Christie had the strongest Brooklyn accent of anyone Rosie had ever met, and wore it like a badge of pride. She was a good manager, hard but fair, and Rosie liked her for that.

“Morning, Christie.”

Christie leaned forward on the counter, a dark curl of her long black hair falling out of her ball cap and into her eyes. 

“Still interested in an art show?”

Rosie dropped her gaze to the roast beef salad sandwich she was prepping, her hands making the precise movements by rote these days.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

Christie’s Uncle owned a small, but well to do art gallery in Upstate New York. He wasn’t shy about giving new artists wall space, and Christie had been bigging up Rosie’s work for months now.

“Give me a piece. Come on, just let him look. What’s the harm?”

Rosie’s mind wandered to the piece she’d painted, grey sky, reaching trees, as turbulent as her mind had been, thinking of Dylan and her life back in the Midwest. “Well….”

“Think it over. I said I’d bring him something tomorrow,” Christie drawled.

“Tomorrow? But-”

Christie reached out, squeezed her arm. “Looking won’t do any harm. Spread your wings a bit, Rosie.”

Rosie mulled it over as she built more sandwiches for the fridge cabinet by the door. Ham salad, chopped cheese, a French dip, a couple of pastrami on rye for the office workers she knew would be by in a few hours.

Then the front door swung open, bringing with it a chilly breeze, and a tall, curly-haired NYPD Detective. She almost dropped the French dip she was wrapping in clear film when he came to the counter.

“Ms Dawes.”

Rosie stifled a smile. She’d stroked him to orgasm and he wasn’t going to use her first name? “Walter,” she said deliberately.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were summer-sky blue, his hair curling over the collar of his warm winter parka. She knew what his mouth tasted like, the soft feel of his beard against her skin. Heat speared through her.

“What can I get you?”

He blinked for a moment, as if forgetting where he was, and she knew he’d felt it too. That spark of heat, of want.

“A chopped cheese - Rach swears no one makes it better than you. And… what’s good today?”

“I just made this French dip.”

“Sold.” He moved out of the way of the fridge as she steadily built the new chopped cheese for his colleague. “How are you?”

She’d never get enough of his smooth British accent as long as she lived. “Okay. Busy, you know.” She caught Christie eyeing them from the other side of the deli, a smirk on her broad face. Great, she’d be ribbed for the rest of the day now. “Any news on the Cat Burglar?”

“None yet,” he confirmed, mouth drawing into a line, and she was sorry she’d asked. But her curiosity had gotten the better of her. “Some cases take longer than you think.”

Rosie bagged up the chopped cheese and put it on the counter along with his French dip, gave him the total. As he dug in his wallet, she stripped off her food prep gloves. The leather holder dropped open as he rummaged, and Rosie caught a glimpse of a smiley teenaged girl with the same dark chocolate curls as her father.

“Your daughter?”

A wistful smile crossed his face. “Thirteen going on thirty, that’s Faye.”

“She’s lovely,” Rosie told him, meaning it. The girl had a heart-shaped face and a sweet, open smile.

“Thanks. Most of the time, she is.”

“Says every parent,” Rosie laughed. She wondered about his home situation. Did he live with Faye’s mother? Or separately? How often did he see his daughter? 

She’d likely not find out.

“So they tell me.” He held out the money and she rang it up, gave him his change. Their hands brushed and for one heated moment, she wished they were completely alone, wondered what he’d do if they were. 

“Listen.” He cleared his throat, met her gaze. “I-”

The peal of his phone was loud in the deli, quiet at the comparably early hour for lunch. “Sorry.” Ever the gentleman, he stepped to the side, took the call. She built another sandwich for the fridge as his brow furrowed, as he spoke quietly into the phone.

When he raised his eyes to her, it was with a silent apology in their blue depths. “I’m sorry. I need to take this.” He took the bag of food from the counter.

Rosie nodded. “Another time, maybe.”

He smiled at her, but it was a little sad. _Police work is hell on relationships,_ he’d said, and she’d just had a glimpse into how true that could be.

******

Marshall swore softly as he stalked through the empty rooms of the abandoned house. Up for rent for months without a bite, it seemed cold. Unfurnished, the wooden floors were bare, the dark varnish too severe for such a large space.

There had been nothing to take, but the now-familiar crayon scrawl of a cat’s face with stick whiskers smiled up at him from one corner of the white skirting board.

A concerned neighbour had called in that she thought she’d seen “that cat burglar” sniffing around the house next door, and Marshall had rolled his eyes when dispatch had relayed the info, but actually she’d been right. He had been here, but if Marshall’s instincts were right the guy was long gone. 

He’s fucking with us, he thought, sourly. But to what end?

He’d have the mayor on his arse if he wasn’t careful.

He drove back to the station in a dark mood. He’d worked hard to get to Detective, he wasn’t going to let one thief with a penchant for crayons and cats get the better of him. At the station, with a cup of steaming black coffee by his elbow, he worked through the log of calls about the burglar. Usually, high-end houses, with random goods taken, some items left without explanation - why take a sterling silver bracelet but leave an iPad? But then in another house, a smartphone was taken and a gold necklace left, sitting out on a dressing table.

Attention? A big “fuck you” to wealthy people?

They needed more information. Normally the NYPD were inundated with anonymous tips, usually people who’d seen the news and wanted attention, or curtain-twitchers with no social lives, whose eyes played tricks on them.

It was bugging him, and what was worse, the news had latched on to the thief in an irritating way. Just once, Marshall wished for a juicy gang-related murder to take the name “Whiskers” off everyone’s lips.

He packed up his paperwork, thinking to go for a run to clear his head. Exercise helped him think the way nothing else did - and the exertion might help him sleep, too.

His phone pinged as he got ready to leave the station. A text from Faye.

_Did you speak to that girl you like?_

A smile ghosted over his lips as he tapped out a reply.

_Not yet._

  
_Daaaaaad,_ came the reply. Marshall rolled his eyes, chuckling. What he’d give to have only the concerns of a teenage girl.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie and Marshall meet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta, @ly--canthrope!

_Five in, Five out._

Rosie tried not to wring her hands together as she waited for her cab downtown, to her first art show.

Her. First. Art. Show.

Well, technically not hers. Christie’s Uncle had liked her piece and asked for two more to display in a section dedicated to new talent. _Talent._ He’d thought she had it.

“This could be it, Salami,” she murmured to the cat. Nerves and excitement and nausea had tailed her constantly for the days since she’d handed over her canvas to Christie. Her worries about Dylan being “Whiskers” had temporarily taken a backseat to her shredded anxiety about other people seeing her work.

Maybe buying her work. What did that mean? Would she need to paint more? Could she? Painting was just a hobby, wasn’t it? Or could it be more?

Her phone chirped, indicating her ride had arrived. She gave Salami a kiss on the top of his soft head, and the cat butted her cheek happily, purring.

Downstairs, she slid into the Uber after the driver confirmed her name. Ten scant minutes later, she thanked the driver and stood outside the small museum hosting the show, smoothing her hands down the dress she’d borrowed from a deli colleague. Rosie hardly owned anything suitable for this sort of event.

The doorman let her in, and she ducked into the bathroom, assessing her appearance, tucking a stray curl of her behind her ear, fussing at imaginary creases in her borrowed cheong-sam. The dress’ high, chinese-style neck was compensated by the thigh-high slit on the left side. The material then fell to her ankles, faux-demure.

She felt naked, the dress was so figure-hugging. She had face-timed Christie when trying it on, and her manager had wolf-whistled down the phone. Damn, girl. Every man in there’s gonna have his tongue out.

Shame she didn’t want just any man, and the only man she did have interest in probably not only viewed her as a “person of interest” in his investigation.

What a crock.

And then she opened the door of the bathroom, stepped out, and almost walked right into him.

“Walter.”

Those blue eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Rosie.”

He looked good enough to eat, those wide shoulders hugged by a grey suit, shirt slightly open at the collar, no tie. She wanted to smooth her tongue down that strip of skin, follow it to the arrow of joy that led-

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out, moving aside to let another woman into the bathroom.

Marshall slid his hands into his suit pockets. “Captain was invited, but he had a diary conflict.”

Rosie swallowed back a laugh. “You mean, he’d rather eat razor blades.”

His throaty laugh did things to her stomach; set loose butterflies. “Let’s stick with the diary conflict, shall we? He offered it out to the bullpen, and I like art.”

She searched his face, looking into those blue, blue eyes and remembering the glide of his skin against hers, the scent of him between her sheets. “I’ve got some work on display here.”

“Seriously? That’s amazing, Rosie.”

His quiet but sincere praise made her heart turn over.

“Show me? I just arrived, so I haven’t seen anything yet,” he added in that swoon-worthy accent. Rosie wondered if Brits were just as enamoured of a Brooklyn twang.

“Sure.”

They followed the steady stream of guests into the museum’s main hall, where a buffet table of fancy nibbles and pre-filled glasses of fizz had been set up. Marshall snagged two glasses and passed one to Rosie.

“I’m sorry,” he began, but just as she turned to hear the rest, Anthony, Christie’s art-savvy Uncle, swooped in.

“Rosie, my dear!” His thick Brooklyn-Italian accent made her name sound musical. Stocky and sporting a thick moustache, he reminded Rosie, not unkindly, of Nintendo’s Mario. “You came. Christie said you might not.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied, accepting his cheek kiss.

“And you have one of New York’s finest on your arm, no less!” He boomed, thinking they’d arrived together. “How is our Captain, Detective?”

“Just fine, thank you, Sir.”

Rosie didn’t know whether to be confused or delighted that Marshall hadn’t dismissed or disagreed with Anthony’s assumption that they’d come to the show together. Her stomach clenched as her heart flipped. 

“Come, come, both of you.” Anthony gently took Rosie’s elbow. “Let me show you where I have displayed your work.”

Rosie glanced at Marshall. He nodded, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that half-smile she was beginning to get addicted to.

She let Anthony lead her. The museum wasn’t crammed, but enough of the great and good of New York had come that made her think that Anthony had quite the sway in the art world. She was so lucky.

They passed under an arch to a smaller, but still well-appointed room, where several canvases were displayed under the stylised title of New York’s New Talent. Rosie spotted her work right away, three canvases of stormy weather, arranged in a triangle which somehow managed to bring out the moody greys in each one.

“They look wonderful here. Thank you, Anthony.”

“Thank you, _bella_ ,” he replied sincerely. “I must say - ah, I spy a friend. Forgive me, it would be rude of me not to greet them. Later, perhaps?”

“Definitely. Thank you again.”

Anthony set off at speed, leaving a whiff of strong cologne behind. Rosie took a deep drink of the fizz. “Wow.”

“You okay?” Marshall asked, ever observant.

“Of course. Just… not every day people get to see my work. In fact, not any day.”

“You don’t post on social media or anything?”

“I guess I should, but I don’t have time, really. I work at the deli a lot, and by the time I get home, I just want some easy reading or some lazy TV. You know? Sorry,” she winced. “You’re the last person I should be talking to about being burned out.”

Marshall sipped his fizz contemplatively, a stray curl of chocolate hair brushing his eyebrow. “It’s all relative. Just because you’re not a police officer, doesn’t mean you can’t be tired.”

“Stop,” she muttered.

His lips curved a little. “Stop what?”

“Stop being so… unforgettable.” She heard herself and cursed silently. “Well. Seems like the alcohol has loosened my tongue.”

His blue eyes darkened. “I can’t object.”

“What were you saying, before?” She moved infinitesimally closer. His scent, coffee, clean soap and cedarwood, wound into her senses, stirring want and need and hope and lust.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, maintaining eye contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, or stop by.”

Rosie’s nerves scattered. “Er - well, you said it yourself. Police work is hell on relationships.”

He moved closer, until she could make out a little patch of hazel in one of his irises. That stray curl flopped over again, and she unconsciously used her free hand to tuck it back into place. “Rosie, the thing is”-

“Excuse me, are you the artist?”

Rosie turned to see a well-dressed woman waiting to speak with her. She needed to get this _right_. She squeezed Marshall’s bicep. “Maybe… I’ll come find you later?”

“Do.” The word seemed loaded as he smiled, just for her, and moved back into the crowd.

Rosie turned back to the older woman, and picked up the conversation.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall and Rosie reconvene after the show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta @ly--canthrope x

“I sold one! I  _ sold _ a canvas. Someone bought one of my canvases!” Rosie squealed when she saw Marshall at the end of the evening. A buzz sounded low in her ears and her heart pounded. “Someone paid money for my work!”

She’d already pinched her arm sore in the bathroom after Anthony had given her the news.

“That’s great!” Marshall enthused. He held out his arms in what she interpreted as an impulse gesture and she stepped into them. He smelled intoxicating, coffee and soap and cedarwood, and she breathed him in, her nose fitting into the curve where his neck met his shoulder, the ends of his hair tickling her forehead.  _ We fit, _ she couldn’t help thinking, heart pounding.  _ I’ve missed him. _

“Congratulations,” he whispered, for her ears alone.

“Thank you,” she whispered back.

“So what’s next for famous artist Rosie Dawes?” he asked, a cheeky smile tugging at his mouth when they parted ways.

Rosie forced herself to keep her gaze on his face, although the way the dark curls of his chest hair flirted with the open neck of his shirt seriously tested her resolve. She knew how that crisp hair felt between her fingers. Knew how he smelled, damp from a shower. Knew the way he moaned when he came-

“Well, I think right now, a shower, food, and bed.” The buffet table had looked tempting, but the nerves roiling in her stomach had prevented her from indulging. Now, however, her body cried for food - specifically, dirty carbs. “And you?”

“Well, I’m off duty tonight.” He held her gaze, his blue eyes full of promise.

Butterflies roamed freely in Rosie’s stomach. She took a deep breath and jumped off the cliff. “Come home with me? I mean, that’s allowed, isn’t it, since you questioned me-”

“It’s allowed.” He cupped her cheek, the warm pad of his thumb running along her lower lip, and she darted her tongue out, tasting his skin, and watched the blue of his eyes go dark, dark and hot, and she thought:  _ oh yes, please. _

Marshall held her hand as they bid their goodbyes to Anthony, and as she personally thanked the well-dressed woman who’d bought the piece Rosie had called  _ The Reach, _ spindly arms of winter trees stretching into a tumultuous grey sky, a single bright green leaf on the trunk the only splash of colour on the canvas.

Rosie called an Uber on her phone, her heart pounding, skin slick with anticipation as Marshall opened the door for her, helped her inside.

Rosie gave her address. He fit so well in her home, she’d not given it a second thought.

“Do you - is my place okay?” she asked as the driver pulled away from the curb.

“Your place is perfect.” He nuzzled her hair. “I’ve lived in my apartment for a year, but it still feels empty. Yours has… heart.”

“You fit there,” she murmured, without thinking.

“ _ Fuck, _ Rosie.” He cupped her face again, gentled her closer, bent to kiss her. Rosie parted her lips to grant him access. The kiss started slow as the fire kindled and built, and their tongues danced. Smoothing her hands up his chest, Rosie unzipped his Winter parka and slid her palm over his chest, touching the triangle of skin exposed by the open neck of his crisp white shirt. His heart beat raggedly under her hand, and it only excited her more.

The cab pulled up outside her building, and the beep of the meter stopping broke their embrace. Marshall paid and thanked the driver as Rosie dug the key from her pocket. Still holding hands, they climbed the steps, unlocked the door, kissing as they wandered up the two flights of stairs, Rosie’s head swam pleasantly, full of his scent and taste, she felt bubbly, lively,  _ happy. _

Marshall waited patiently, his hands in his pockets like a nervous schoolboy, his eyes in full puppydog mode, as she unlocked her door, let him in. Closed it.

Then he pounced.

Backing her against the door, he ravished her mouth. Rosie kissed him back with all the hunger pent up since their last time together. She fisted a hand in the glorious fall of his hair, then let her head fall back when he left her mouth to explore her neck. He feasted on her skin as he unzipped her coat, letting it fall.

“ _ Fuck,  _ this dress.” He kissed the high neck, his lips ghosting over her collarbone, then down until he pressed a kiss to her heart, then over her breasts, down her stomach, until he knelt at her feet. Shoving off his parks, he let it pool with her coat on the floor, glancing up at her, his blue eyes dark in the soft light from the hallway lamp she kept on a timer.

“Marshall.” She combed a hand through his hair. “Do you prefer that to Walter?”

He smiled, deadly sexy in the lamp’s glow. “I prefer anything in your voice.” Then he slowly, slowly, rolled the hem of the dress up, kissing his way up her calves and thighs.

Rosie watched his head between her legs, her stomach somersaulting, feeling herself growing wetter with each breath.

“Please,” she whispered.

“I’m getting there,” he murmured against her knee, his breath tickling pleasantly, and she heard the smile in his voice. “Bossy now that you’ve sold a painting, aren’t you?”

Rosie half-laughed. “Just remember that turnabout is fair play.”

“Fighting talk,” he laughed back and then he pulled her panties down and put his mouth on her.

On a low groan, Rosie pressed herself into the soft heat of his mouth.  _ Fuck, _ he was so, so good at this. Each tight curl of his tongue made her muscles contract greedily, her heart pounding for more, more, more,  _ please, more. _ He braced one hand on her thigh and slid one finger of the other inside her. She clenched her muscles around him, wishing the digit was a different part of him. “Oh, God,  _ Walter. _ ”

“Just like that,” he murmured, and went back to work with his tongue. It felt like he was writing his name on the most sensitive part of her, staking his claim. On the  _ T _ she imploded, the orgasm flying through her like a shooting star, wringing her dry as she bucked against his face. Marshall stroked her through it, kept the lazy pressure of his tongue up until as she sobbed from the sensitivity, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her legs trembling in the heels she still wore.

He looked up at her, still on his knees, his lips shiny-wet from her orgasm, and Rosie’s heart turned over.

Marshall rested his cheek on her stomach, smoothing her panties and her dress back into place.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you at the gallery,” he confessed.

“Really,” she half-chuckled, breathless.

“Really.”

“How about something for you, now?”

She felt his smile. “That  _ was _ for me.”

“Walter, I-” she stopped talking when the fierce growl of her stomach interrupted her. They both laughed.

Marshall stood, dropped a kiss on her hair. “How about I make something to eat, and then….?”

“And then,” she agreed.

Salami appeared in the hallway, head tilted as if to say  _ are you done? _ Rosie held out her hand and the cat sashayed over, meowing.

Marshall bent to stroke him and the cat turned its back, tail swishing. “Wow. Cold.”

Rosie laughed. “He’ll come around.” She crossed to the bed, made up into a sofa currently, and sat to take off her heels.

She heard Marshall open the fridge, imagined him poking around.

“How do you feel about a cheese and bacon omelette?”

“I feel  _ great _ about it.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta, @ly--canthrope!!

When she came out of the bathroom, changed into a much comfier jersey dress - not wanting to get food on the borrowed cheong-sam - Marshall stood at the tiny stove. The smell of frying bacon and buttery eggs wound through her little apartment, making it warm, homey. She padded over to him on bare feet. When she slid her arms around him, pressing her face to the soft white shirt he wore, Salami wove between her calves, and she thought:  _ just this. _

“You like to cook?”

“I used to cook all the time,” he murmured, flipping the omelette deftly. The eggs were golden. “I think it’s ready.”

“Smells good.” Rosie gave him a squeeze and set the small table with plates and cutlery; filled two glasses with water.

Marshall split the omelette and carried the pan to the table, sliding half on to each plate. She laughed when he came back with a little porcelain bowl of finely chopped parsley.

“Thanks, Gordon Ramsey.”

His lips twitched. “Hardly.” He offered her the bowl and after she’d taken a pinch, he served himself.

“Thank you, really.”

“You’re welcome, really.”

Rosie dug in with gusto. The flavours bloomed on her tongue, the rich, sunshine-bright yolk, the salty bacon, the creamy grand padano, her only indulgence from the Italian-run deli two blocks from her apartment. “On my  _ God. _ This is  _ amazing. _ ”

“Thanks.”

She saw the little blush creep into his cheeks as he forked up another mouthful.

“So…..” He glanced up and it was her turn to blush. “I feel like I know almost nothing about you, even though we’ve…. Well. You know.”

“Yeah.” He took a sip of water. “Well…. What would you like to know?”

She mulled it over as Salami nuzzled at her ankle, probably angling for some bacon. “Have you always been a cop?”

“No, actually. I was SWAT before - transferred when Faye was born. Her, ah, mother was worried about it; it can be dangerous.”

“Do you miss it? SWAT, I mean.”

Marshall lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Yes and no.”

“And how did you meet? Faye’s mom, I mean.”

“Blind date. A friend at the station - precinct, here, isn’t it? - set us up.” He shook his head, smiling, a far off look in his eyes. “I had an excuse all lined up, but, turned out, I didn’t need it.”

Rosie’s heart turned over. “I love that.”

His brow furrowed. “Love what? Talking about my ex?”

“No.” She reached over to snag his free hand, tangling their fingers. “I love that you didn’t downplay it. Some guys I’ve dated would have said how their past lovers didn’t matter, or that they were forgotten. I love that you smiled when you thought of her, and that you served me up a good memory.”

He took a deep breath; she watched a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Even if we’d hated each other, I’ll always be grateful to Angie for giving me Faye. Some part of me will always love her for that.”

“I’m glad.” And she meant it with all her heart. “You can’t just turn love off like a tap. I don’t think people work that way.”

He squeezed her hand, holding her gaze. “I really am sorry I didn’t get in touch. Police work  _ is _ hell on relationships, Rosie, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Plus, if I let you slip through my fingers, Faye will kick my arse. She does tai kwon do  _ and _ she’s a girl, so if she’s been listening to me about self defence at all these years, she’ll fight dirty.”

“Faye? You told your daughter about me?”

“Guilty as charged.”

Rosie’s breath hitched. “Walter… wow.”

“Yeah, wow. It’s been a long time since I wanted to try with someone, but, I want to.”

She took a long drink of water. “Me, too. God, please tell me you have condoms.”

“I definitely  _ do _ have condoms. I bought them on the off chance. I…. hoped.” 

Rosie caved to the plaintive meows from Salami and fed the purring cat a tiny morsel of leftover bacon from the edge of her plate. “Thank  _ God. _ ”

Marshall took the plates and glasses to the sink as Rosie measured cat food into Salami’s bowl. It was oddly comforting, moving together like this.  _ We fit, _ she thought again, happiness blooming inside her like a flower stretching to the sunlight.

“Help me build the bed?”

He stretched out the futon and covers, and when it was done, she opened her arms and he stepped into them, teasing her neck with his lips. She arched to give him better access, combed her fingers through the thick, dark curls of his hair. 

“Do you have work tomorrow?” he whispered by her pulse point.

“Not until two.”

Marshall smiled against her skin, his beard tickling pleasantly. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about this for a  _ long _ time, and I want to do everything. Multiple times.”

She shivered in anticipation. “Yes, please.”

In the half light from the small hall lamp, his cobalt eyes were very dark, promising pleasure untold. Rosie tipped up his chin and he took the hint, kissing her languidly, taking his sweet time, as they tasted each other. He murmured her name and licked into her mouth, and Rosie looped her arms around his neck, pressing her body to his, feeling the hard lines of him against her, revelling in it.

Marshall nipped her bottom lip playfully, and then his kisses moved down again, dotting over her chin, down to her neck, where the gentle scrape of his jaw scruff rendered her skin super sensitive. As she giggled, a sound she hadn’t heard herself make for, perhaps, years, he captured her lips again, the kiss so tender this time that her heart bumped painfully in her chest.

As he returned to kissing her neck, his hand lifted to cup her breast, his thumb finding the already firm point of her nipple and teasing it to hardness through the soft fabric of her jersey dress. She strained towards him, only wanting more, more, more.  _ Please, more. _

“ _ Fuck, _ Rosie,” he bit out, her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

The sound of her name in his accent, like that, set something loose in Rosie. Maybe it was knowing that he seemed as enchanted by this tug-of-war attraction between them as she was, but it was enough.

She slid her hands into his hair again, loving the feel of it, soft and thick, the curls falling between her fingers. She pressed her mouth to his temple as he continued devouring the super sensitive skin of her neck.

For the first time in - well, longer than she could remember, she stopped thinking, and started to simply  _ feel _ .

It seemed like Marshall was going to take charge, and she-

She would let him. And it would be glorious.

Rosie arched into his hand as he used the other to yank her closer to him, closer still. With their bodies pressed together there was no mistaking the hard ridge in his jeans pressed to her lower belly. The heat of it, the desperate want of it, made muscles deep inside her clench, over and over. She abandoned his hair and instead slid her hands down to cup his _amazing_ ass through his jeans. It had the effect of pushing his erection closer into her, and she helplessly ground up against him, hearing a little mewl of need and realising belatedly that it came from her lips.

“Walter-”

“Bed?” he murmured against her skin.

“God, yes.”

Almost without warning, he swung her up into his arms as if she weighed hardly a thing, walked them both over to the converted futon. When he would have put her down gently on it, Rosie yanked at his lapels until he collapsed on to it, on to her, that long, work-roughened, rangy body pressed deliciously atop hers. She kept hold of his shirt and tugged his face down until their mouths met again, until their tongues tangled. She let Marshall drink her in and gave as good as she got, savouring every taste, every new texture.

He buried his hands in her hair, and Rosie took the opportunity to start on the buttons of his shirt. He’d looked delicious as sin at the museum, his crisp, snowy shirt slightly open at the neck, exposing that tempting curve where his neck met his shoulders. His jeans hugged his hips like a lover. She wanted her legs there tonight.  _ Every _ night.

Impatient now, Rosie tore open the last button and shoved the edges of the shirt aside, feasting on his bare chest with her fingers and palms, smoothing her hands over the curls of his chest hair. When she could bear it no more she broke the kiss and used her eyes, too, allowing herself a visual feast of his sculpted physique. The planes and angles of his chest didn’t disappoint. This view would live in her fantasies for some time to come.

She pushed the shirt down his shoulders and it fell to the floor.

Marshall raised a brow, his expression playful. “Impatient?”

Rosie grinned back, feeling light. “I’m simply someone who knows what she wants.”

“And gets it?”

She slid a hand down his naked back to rest on his belt, happiness and desire twinning to make her feel light. “What does it look like to you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be unbridled smut, I promise.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of what will be 2 VERY smutty chapters. Marshall deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you to my beta @ly--canthrope x

They smiled at each other for a second, perfectly in tune, and Marshall dipped his head to press another row of kisses along the column of her neck. Rosie revelled in the tingle of his bearded jaw against her skin. Dark on light. Spiky on smooth.

Marshall paused at the scooped neck of her dress, his lips skating the line where the silky fabric met her skin. She shivered in anticipation.

“Yes?” he asked, so softly she almost thought she’d imagined it.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

Marshall helped her to sit up, and unzipped the dress at the back, parting the garment and easing it down her arms. Slowly.

“Faster,” she whispered.

“I’m going to take my time, sweetheart,” he murmured in that perfect accent. He folded the parted dress down and lay her on the bed again.

Was this what it would always be like between them? She wondered. The fire and heat and want, but with the layer of softness.

And then he bent his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth, lace bra and all, and she stopped thinking altogether.

The heat of his mouth, the barely-there scrape of his teeth, along with the insistent press of his long, lean body on top of hers, made her back arch. She pressed herself against him, wanting more, more, closer, hotter, harder.

She heard someone insist, “more,” and realised belatedly that it was her.

Marshall flipped open the front clasp of her bra, and tasted her without barriers. The warm friction of his tongue on her hardened nipple made her cry out. Later she would realise that she’d never been this uninhibited with Dylan.

He gave similar attention to her other breast, and the tickle of his beard with the soft stroke of his tongue sent her internal muscles into a frenzy. She bucked against him, wanting more, now.

“You’re making it hard for me to take my time with you,” he groused against the curve of her breast, his voice thick.

“Then don’t.” She clutched at his hair. The length of him pressed up between her legs, hard where she was soft, made her impossibly wet.

He lifted his head and raised a brow. “Is that an order?” he teased.

*****

Marshall waited for Rosie to respond to his playful question, hoping he hadn’t overdone it, hoping she realised that he was playing. 

He released a breath in relief when she countered with, “Depends how good you are at following orders, Detective.”

“I promise I’ll apply myself,” he replied, mock-seriously. “But I need this off you. Now.”

“Yes. Walter, Yes.”

God, he loved this playful side of her. She was sweet and tender like this, unguarded, despite the fact she’d come out of a hard relationship with ready-made walls around her.

Rosie met his gaze for a hot second, and then she slid her hands between their bodies and grasped the hem of her jersey dress, pulling it up and over her head. Her bra followed, whispering to the floor, instantly forgotten.

She was a goddess on a faded grey futon. Her silky hair haloed a beautiful face crowned with a mouth made for sin. As she looked at him through eyes half-closed with desire, he thought he’d never had a more perfect moment. Or a more perfect woman.

All I have to do is never let her go.

His heart thumped hard in his chest, and he felt fearfully sentimental. Afraid to be this happy. Afraid to _need_ her this much.

“Rosie, I-”

She pressed a gentle hand to his lips. “No talking. No thinking. Just…. This.”

He could see her point. They’d have plenty of time to think about how their relationship would work when the sun shone again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He captured her mouth again, delighting in the sweet taste of her, and how easily she gave to him, how easily those walls dropped down. 

Rosie locked her arms around his neck, and shifted to wrap her legs around his hips. Fuck, he wished he could think away the layers of denim and cotton between him and paradise right now. But he’d said he wanted to take his time, and so he would.

He moved down her body, taking his sweet time to worship her amazing breasts. She pressed into his mouth, moaning in his name in a breathy gasp that he’d never get enough of if he lived be to a hundred.

“Walter,” she sighed, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. “Clothes. Off. Now, Please.”

He wasted no time in divesting himself of jeans, boxers and socks. When he glanced up, Rosie had propped herself up on some pillows, naked except for black lace panties, and was watching him, like Queen Cleopatra waiting for Anthony, knowing he was her willing slave in all things.

He thought about making her laugh with some quip or another, such as, like what you see? Or, look all you want, babe.

But to do so with Rosie felt trite. So he just smiled.

She returned the expression, and crooked a finger in invitation.

In that moment, he would have done literally anything she wanted. 

He joined her on the bed, heart pounding, his cock as hard as it had ever been, and when he got close enough, she pulled him over her, sliding on to her back and wrapping her legs around his hips, slotting the solid length of him right against that sweet spot between her legs. Oh, fuck.

He rasped her name against her neck as they moved together for moments that seemed to spiral into hours. Rosie stroked her hands down his back, settling her heels on his calves, letting her head fall back so he could feast on her neck as he moved against her. Settled in the cradle of her hips, the head of his cock pressed against her sensitive folds through the lace of her panties. With each stroke, bolts of pleasure shot through him. He could die happy like this.

“Rosie.” He half leaned up, panting. “If I keep this up, it won’t last long. And I said I was going to take my time.”

“I’m ready,” she insisted.

“I’m not.” He was surprised to discover he really meant it. “Just let me take care of you first.”

“Okay.” The faint blush that crept up her cheeks told him he’d said the right thing.

Marshall moved down her body and hooked his fingers in the edges of her panties. He eased them down her legs, dropping the lace soundlessly to the floor.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the pillow when he gently parted her legs. She smelled musky, so good.

He felt her tense up. “Is this okay?”

“Please,” she whispered, and he did her bidding.

He licked her in sure, smooth strokes. She trembled in delight as he kept the pressure up, learning just how to stroke that bud of nerves to set her alight, to make her legs shake.

Rosie sobbed his name as he curled one, then two fingers inside her. She was so desperately wet and he feared he might come just from the taste of her, the feel of her falling apart against his face.

He flicked just the right spot with his tongue and she came in a burst of light and heat, pressing into his mouth, his name falling from her lips again, a whispered prayer.

When she came to, he moved to lay next to her, head propped up on his hand, gazing down at her face.

He could tell that she didn’t have the energy to do anything but smile. She’d come like a freight train, and the fact he had done that made his chest fill with pride.

“I thought I’d never feel like that again,” she murmured, pressing her face into his chest, embarrassed.

“I’ll make you feel like that whenever you want,” he promised.

He snagged the condom from his jeans pocket. Rosie plucked it from his fingers and rolled it on to him, the expression on her face cheeky, the heat in her eyes undoing him. Then, grinning, she lunged for him, and Marshall ceded control willingly.

They rolled over the wide futon and Rosie wrestled her way on top, settling her legs either side of his hips. She looked down at him, impossibly beautiful, a goddess about to go to war, fire in her eyes, the soft light haloing her curves.

She held his gaze as she slowly, _slowly_ , slid down on to him. Her wet heat surrounding him was almost too much, and he helplessly bucked up into her body, clenching his hands in the bedsheets.

His heart beat a ragged tattoo as she took him in all in, then held still, allowing them both time to enjoy the feel of each other. Marshall stroked his hands down her body, then settled them on her hips, squeezing gently. He wanted her to move. If she didn’t, he might explode.

She obliged him for them both, going slowly at first, the tight walls of her milking him. Such a perfect fit, he thought. When she set a faster pace, wanting to bring him to orgasm, he pistoned his hips up to meet her, gripping her hips, hoping he wouldn’t leave bruises.

“Fuck, Rosie, I can’t-”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I want it, I want all of you.”

One of his hands left her hips to strum that sweet spot at her apex, and she fell apart. A few seconds after, Marshall barely registered his own shout as the orgasm flashed through him, fire in his veins.

Bonelessly, Rosie slid down to meet him, chest to chest. He curled his arms lazily around her, watched as her eyes drifted closed. The little aftershocks of good - no, fantastic - sex rocked their bodies pleasantly, like late, welcome fireworks.

“Rosie.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Condom.”

She let him shift her gently off him, and he took care of business. When he returned, he pulled the covers up over both of them and pulled her close, spooning her, loving the feel of her soft bottom snuggled into him. He nuzzled at her hair. “You know, I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

“Me, too.” She yawned hugely, settled even closer to him. “I hope you’ve got more condoms.”

He half-laughed but it turned into a yawn, and he felt his eyes closing. She turned her head and he dropped a kiss on her smiling lips before sleep claimed him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy morning for our favourite idiots in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever thanking my beta, @ly--canthrope!

Rosie stretched languidly, waking up slowly. She turned over and her heart beat wildly for a moment when she saw the empty space of futon beside her - but then she smelled it; the siren call of freshly made coffee.

Marshall padded over to the futon with a tray fashioned from the biggest chopping board she owned. Balanced on it were two mugs of coffee and a large plate holding three slices of toast topped with chopped banana drizzled with chocolate sauce and honey.

Rosie laughed. “I have chocolate sauce?”

“Well, it’s meant to be sauce you put in mochas, but I thought, all chocolate is chocolate, right?” He set the tray down and settled in beside her, pulling her in for a kiss.

She sighed, so happy she could burst from it. “God, I could get used to this. Thank you.”

He passed her one of the mugs. “I could get used to this, too.”

They shared a smile and then Rosie sipped her coffee. “What more could I want than a man that brings me coffee and breakfast in bed? What’s your place like?” she asked, thoughtfully.

His brow furrowed. “Soulless.”

“Will you take me there? Please,” she added, when it was clear he was hesitating.

“If you like. I don’t think you’ll want to spend time there.”

“I’ll want to spend time anywhere you are, Walter.”

He closed his eyes briefly and she almost could see the emotions roiling inside him. “Rosie, I go to some pretty dark places.”

She leaned into him, thinking of how nicely he filled all the dark spaces inside her. “Then let me light them up for you?”

“Rosie,” he breathed, and he set their mugs on the tray and moved it to the floor, then, in one smooth move he had her under him. “What you do to me. My body and my heart.” He kissed her tenderly, his lips soft and sweet, and she threaded her hands into his glorious tangle of curls, looping her legs around his hips, holding him there.

“I want you,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Fuck, yes.” He positioned himself right _there_ , and then pulled back, frowning in regret. “Condom, almost forgot.”

She chuckled. “We can’t be trusted. We’re like a couple of horny teenagers.”

Marshall quickly sheathed himself and returned to bed, settling himself right where they both wanted to be. Rosie hooked her legs around his hips, anchoring him in, as he bent his head and lavished attention on her breasts, the nipples already hard. She arched into his mouth and he bit down gently just as he thrust inside her. Rosie gasped out his name and for a second he held perfectly still, just enjoying that perfect moment of being inside her, the feeling of being home, of belonging.

Later, they ate breakfast together, Rosie still aglow from selling her work at the art show. 

“So what next for famed artist Rosie Dawes?” Marshall teased as they tidied the breakfast dishes.

She smiled, setting the mugs back on the shelf. They worked well together in the small space, somehow not tripping over each other.

Salami gobbled at his food, purring as he ate, occasionally looking up to check what his humans were doing. It was all painfully domestic and Rosie loved it.

“Well, this artist is feeling like a shower. Maybe she’ll be joined by her hunky boyfriend?”

The smile that flashed on his face was all the answer she needed.

She led him to the shower and they shed their clothes as the hot water came through. Rosie smoothed her shower-gel-slick hands over his chest, washing him reverently, not quite believing he was hers, when after that first night she was convinced she would never see him again, that it had been a one time deal.

The fact he wanted to try with her made her heart soar.

Marshall tugged her close and turned her in his arms, washing her hair gently with her coconut shampoo. The scent filled the steam in the shower, reminding her of far off, tropical shores and holidays. She let her head fall back on his shoulder and he bent to kiss the line of her neck. She groaned his name as he filled his hands with her breasts, gently massaging and stroking. In a mimic of the first time they’d done this, he slid one palm down her stomach and stroked between her legs, finding her wet and ready. In a scant minute he had her gasping as he played her expertly, bringing her to a shuddering orgasm, the sound of her sighs lost in the hot run of the water.

He brought her down from it slowly, petting her intimately as her shudders slowed. She tossed him a wicked smile over her shoulder and crouched down in front of him, taking him into her mouth before he fully realised her intention. The low groan that escaped his lips made her smile around the head of his cock as she lapped him like fine ice cream, using her hand to create extra friction. He buried his fingers in her hair as she continued to work him, learning what he liked, what made his erection jerk on her tongue, what made him utter “fuck” in that British baritone.

He came with a long exhale and then eased her to her feet, holding her close.

“Rosie,” was all he said, kissing her hair.

Later, they dressed together, had another coffee, and then Rosie got ready for work. Salami cuddled up in his lap as Marshall drank another coffee - his veins must have been half caffeine, Rosie thought, amused. “He’s changed his tune.”

Marshall grinned. “He knows he isn’t getting rid of me any time soon.”

She bent to kiss the cat’s furry head. “See you later, baby.”

Marshall set the cat on the bed and got a side-eye from the feline for it. “I’ll be back, buddy,” he promised.

Salami uttered a low meow and turned his back, in the universally known you’re dead to me cat snub.

Marshall laughed. “Rosie, I-”

“Oh wow - wait, what is _this_?”

In a flash he was at her side. Rosie stood in the open doorway to her apartment. At the threshold sat a small, neatly wrapped present, the bow tied to perfection, red silk. Rosie’s name was written in marker pen in one corner of the gift. There were no other distinguishing things about it. 

Marshall grabbed her shoulder. “Do. Not. Touch. That.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious box is investigated.

At his desk, Marshall shoved his hands through the mess of his hair, irritated. The parcel sat in front of him in a clear evidence bag, not yet opened. He couldn’t decide what to do with it. It hadn’t exploded. It made a soft sound when gently shaken. All the worst possibilities had skated through his mind when he’d seen it.

A body part.

A dead animal.

A bomb.

Rosie had gone, with some hesitation, to the deli. She’d decided to start her shift a little early and be around people. Marshall didn’t blame her. He wanted to pick her up, but tonight was his night with Faye, so he planned to ask Rachael if she’d stay with Rosie, make sure she was okay.

He’d already been in touch with the super of Rosie’s building to ask for any cctv tapes from the entrance and the hallway. It was 50/50 between whether he’d get the tapes and whether they actually existed. Many companies installed fake cameras, or never bothered to fix busted ones.

He growled in annoyance and shoved out of his chair, then finally snapped on evidence gloves and eased the prettily wrapped box from its bag, then tore the ribbon off. The lid lifted off easily, and Marshall felt himself wince before looking inside to find-

A sterling silver bracelet sat looped on a soft pad of silk. His pulse raced as he shucked off the gloves and slid open his file cabinet, snatching out the  _ Whiskers _ file, flipping through it, to find-

This was the missing silver bracelet from one of the classy NYC homes that the cat burglar had hit.

He lay the case file down next to the box Rosie had received, to double check. Yep. The same  _ fucking _ bracelet.

His phone chirped and he dug it from his pocket, absently flicking the screen on.

**FAYE:** Can I still come over tonight?

**DAD** : Sure, sweetheart. What do you want for dinner?

**FAYE** : You cook now?

He smiled at himself. She had her mother’s smart mouth, all right.

**DAD** : Not if you keep that up, I won’t. How about lasagne?

**FAYE** : With garlic bread?

**FAYE** : Mom says I can have garlic bread.

He smirked. No way even his daughter could have asked  _ and _ gotten an answer that quickly.

**FAYE** : When will I meet your girlfriend?

His throat went dry just as Rachael poked her head around the door of his cupboard-sized office.

“Marshall, cctv tapes just got dropped off.”

He was out of his chair like a rocket, locking the door behind him.

Rachael led him down the corridor towards the cybercrimes unit - well,  _ unit _ was a generous word for a large room full of servers where their tech guys, Quinn and Glasgow - and sometimes Glasgow’s baby, when his wife had to work, a situation that everyone pretended not to know about - could be found.

“Oh, forgot. Rach, are you free tonight?”

She glanced up to him as they walked. “Oh, I - no, shoot, I have a date. But I can cancel. What do you need?”

He thought about the hope on her face when she’d spoken about the date. Rachel needed some happiness. Who was he to piss on her cornflakes? “Ah, nothing. I’ll sort it.”

If she was curious, she didn’t have time to question him, because Quinn, all floppy hair and soft eyes, opened the door; he had obviously been waiting. 

“Got ‘em queued up ready.”

Quinn dropped back into his chair, motioning at Glasgow who hit play on the tapes. “We’ve both been working on them, forwarding through. A lot of nothing,” Quinn narrated as the static flashed past, but then…”

He hit play and Marshall leaned over his shoulder, mouth in a thin line as he concentrated. “I know him. How do I know him?”

Rachael moved over. “Rewind ten seconds. Wait. He’s the kid who works at the deli. Arnold or something.”

*********

After an hour at work, Rosie had just about managed to stop her hands from shaking. She made herself think  _ only _ of her favourite things as she built sandwiches for a buffet order from the office across the street. The work was comforting, kept her from wringing her hands and screaming her frustration.

Worrying was about as useful as a chocolate sunshade, after all.

Her colleagues, especially Christie, were concerned, kept asking if she needed to go home. She did  _ not _ , wasn’t even sure if she would feel safe there alone. Christ knew what she’d do this evening. 

One problem at a time.

Marshall had been the consummate professional after the box was found. He sat her down, got her sweet tea, called the station. Two officers arrived within minutes and took the box in an evidence bag to the station while Marshall double checked her locks and escorted her to the door of the deli.

Christie said nothing but raised an eyebrow, smiling, when Marshall dropped a kiss on her forehead.

She looked up as the door bell tinkled, amazed to see the object of her thoughts headed inside, that swagger making her mouth dry. Even though he had  _ more _ than satisfied her, she was beginning to think she’d never get enough of this particular flavour of tall, dark and handsome.

“Rosie,” he started, as she put down the batch of roast chicken baguettes she’d been slicing.

Christie looked up from her paperwork in the corner, but didn’t say anything.

“Is everything okay?” He looked tired. She wanted to reach up and cup his cheek, feel the gentle tickle of his beard on her palm, but he looked like he was on official business, and besides, she still wore chicken covered hygiene gloves.

“It’s probably best if I speak to your manager. She in?” His gaze held hers, and in his eyes she read a million things he wasn’t telling her.

“Ah, sure.” She swallowed back the wave of anxiety threatening to bring up her coffee, and called Christie over. 

Marshall touched her shoulder. “See you later?”

Some of the anxiety waned. “You bet.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walter does some detective work. Sometimes I forget he still has an actual job. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanking my beta, @ly--canthrope !

“I swear, I swear, I only delivered it! You gotta believe me.”

Marshall sat opposite the kid - twenty at most - in Christie’s office in the back of the deli. He held his deli-issue ball cap in his hands, twisting it, his eyes full of anxiety, but to his credit, he didn’t look away from Marshall.

 _He’s telling the truth, dammit._ Marshall felt it in his gut.

“And how did he contact you?” Marshall asked, leaning back, trying not to be too intimidating.

Christie arched an eyebrow, indicating that he’d failed. Arlo looked about one hot second away from pissing his pants.

“He didn’t - I’m telling you man - uh, Sir. One day I finish my shift and there’s a note in my backpack with the parcel and a fifty dollar note saying just to drop it off. That’s it. It was a present!”

His eyes were wild now, his shoulders visibly shaking.

“Okay, okay,” Marshall allowed. “Do you still have the note?”

Arlo swallowed. “I don’t know. It might be in my backpack. Can I get it?”

Marshall refrained from rolling his eyes. Yeah, no way this kid was involved. He was like a toddler asking permission to use the bathroom.

“Sure.”

Christie moved to let him out. “He didn’t do this, Detective.”

Marshall scrubbed his hands over his face, staring down at the notebook and pencil on the chipped formica top of what served as Christie’s desk. “I know,” he sighed. “But I have to follow the lead. Who has access to the staff area?”

Christie chewed her lip, then sighed. “Well, Arlo’s a hard worker, but he’s a creature of habit. He always hangs his backpack and coat on the customer coat rack, by the door. God knows I've told him not to a million times. On a busy day, anyone could have got into it, and I can’t say for sure I’d have noticed, not with the usual rush and the TV on like it usually is.”

Marshall bit back a curse. “Right.”

Arlo hurried back with his backpack in his hands and offered it to Marshall. “Look for yourself,” he said shakily.

Marshall took it from him - gently. “Sit down,” he added gruffly. He felt bad for the poor kid. He reached into the bag, emptying it, but making sure to take care of the kid’s things. “You have security cameras?” he asked Christie.

She rolled her eyes. “What do you think?”

 _Right_. That’s what he’d assumed.

He sorted through Arlo’s stuff. A couple of tattered notebooks, one with the word Rosie doodled on the front with a heart. He ignored that, but didn’t miss the way Arlo’s face went bright red. He flipped through the lined notebook, finding teenage poetry. He ignored that, too. To his credit, Arlo stayed stoically silent.

A couple of Reese’s candy bars.

A bottle of fizzy juice.

A spare sweater with some teenage band logo on it.

He hit paydirt with the second notebook. A slip of paper fell out.

$50 FOR DROPPING THIS OUTSIDE ROSIE DAWES’ DOOR. NO CATCH.

“Fifty dollars,” Arlo whispered. “That’s a lot, for one package drop.”

“And you didn’t think to wonder what was inside it?” Marshall growled.

Arlo shrunk back.

The A4 sheet of paper could have come from anywhere, as could the ink used to print on it. But he tugged an evidence bag from his bag pocket anyway and slid the paper inside, touching only the bottom left corner.

“Am I under arrest?” Arlo asked. All the colour had drained from his face.

“No,” Marshall assured him. “But if you get another note like this-”

“I’ll ring the cops right away!” 

Christie rubbed the boy’s shoulder. “Go home, Arlo. No shift for you today.”

The poor kid looked at Marshall, eyes filled with trepidation.

“You can go,” Marshall told him gruffly.

"Thanks ma- uh, Sir."

Christie levelled her gaze at Marshall once Arlo had slunk off. “Well, that wasn’t scary for him at all,” she deadpanned.

“I could have had him hauled to the station. You know that. I could have insisted you weren’t here.”

All the fight went out of her. “I know. Okay, back to work. I hope you catch the prick.”

Me, too, Marshall thought. When Christie opened the door he heard Rosie talking to some customers about what to order on the side of their peach pie. Just then, his phone trilled and he yanked it from his pocket. A message from Commissioner Harper. No, they didn’t have the budget to spare for someone to watch Rosie. Not when Whiskers hadn’t actually hurt anyone.

Marshall chewed his lip, thinking.

How would Faye feel about a dinner guest?

**DAD** : You could meet her tonight? Only if you want.

**FAYE** : Adsdjwlrtjwlkjjngfmdnfkaehrfqjyegrfeq!!!!!

**DAD** : So… You’re okay with that?

**FAYE** : Duh!

**FAYE** : You better get extra garlic bread though. I don’t share food.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie and Faye meet.

Marshall thanked Christie and made his way out of the deli, stopping to say goodbye to Rosie. She waved to an old couple who complimented the day’s special before turning to him, her tumble of hair looped in a ponytail through her deli-logo ball cap.

“Arlo, huh?” she asked, but her tone was nervous.

“He isn’t involved, Rosie. He did what any teenage boy would do - took fifty dollars to drop the gift to you. What teenage boy could resist?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Okay.”

“So,” he began as the deli bustled around them, “Tonight. I, ah…. I don’t think you should be alone.”

Colour infused her cheeks. “Actually I don’t want to be alone. I could ask Christie if-”

“Stay with me? I’ll have Faye tonight, but she’s actually really stoked to meet you.”

Rosie’s eyes widened for a second. “She is?”

“She is. Although she reiterated that she doesn’t share food.”

Her lips curved, and the urge to kiss her ran through his veins like wildfire. “Smart girl.”

“We’ll pick you up at seven, then?”

“Perfect.” She looked as if she was about to lift her face for a kiss, but a customer waved her over with a request for a coffee top up. “See you later, Walt.”

It was the first time she’d shortened his name, and he liked it.

He hadn’t taken three steps out of the door when Arlo appeared beside him. Marshall folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the outer brick wall of the deli. “Uh huh?”

“Uh, Sir.” Arlo’s face flushed red, his backpack hung on one shoulder. “You don’t have to tell Rosie, do you? About the….. Er….”

“Poetry?” Marshall prompted, hiding his amusement.

“Yeah,” Arlo mumbled, staring at the ground.

Marshall put him out of his misery. “I’m pretty sure it’s against the bro code. I won’t say anything.”

Arlo’s eyebrows shot into his hairline and he nodded. “Thanks, uh, Sir.” He turned away as fast as his legs would carry him, no attempt at the cool teenage slouch Marshall had seen him adopt previously.

  
  


*****

**DAHLIA** : How are you, babe? Not heard from you for a hot minute.

**ROSIE** : Well….. I’ve met someone.

**DAHLIA** : Holy shit!

**DAHLIA** : What’s he like? I want to know everything about him. How tall is he? What colour is his hair? Have you seen inside his pants?

**ROSIE** : Lovely. A bit grumpy on the surface but sweet inside. He’s very tall. Brown hair. And yes, I have. 

**DAHLIA** : Oh my gawd.

**DAHLIA** : By the way, you haven’t seen Dylan around have you? It’s a big city so I guess probably not. But his old schoolteacher’s mom said he’d left for NYC.

**DAHLIA** : You ok?

**DAHLIA** : Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

**DAHLIA** : OK, you didn’t even laugh. I can tell even from here. Maybe I should come visit?

*****

Rosie fidgeted by the door of her apartment. She’d packed an overnight bag, changed Salami’s litter tray, ensured his dispenser was full of enough food to last until tomorrow mid morning. She glanced around her apartment, once her sanctuary. True, Dylan - if indeed Whiskers was Dylan - hadn’t crossed the threshold, but he knew where she lived, and that was bad enough.

The buzzer rang and she almost jumped off her feet. Drawing in a deep breath, she shook her head. “Calm down.” _Five in, five out._

She pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Marshall’s voice came clear through the speaker. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Be right down.” Rosie bent to drop a kiss to Salami’s head where the cat curled up on her painting table, eyes closed, tail flicking lazily.

She locked up behind her, the heels of her boots clicking on the stairs. The weather was getting warmer by slow degrees, but Winter’s teeth hadn’t been blunted yet, and she wrapped her scarf tighter as she pressed the door release.

Marshall stood outside in his thick black parka, the hood down. The wind teased errants curls of his thick, dark hair . Next to him, her hands in her pockets, waited the teenage girl from Marshall’s wallet picture, her hair hidden by the purple hood of her winter jacket, an expression of wariness and hope on her adolescent face.

“Hi,” Rosie ventured. “You must be Faye.”

“And you’re Rosie,” Faye replied, her tone neutral. “Dad says you’re staying with us tonight.”

Rosie glanced up at Marshall. “If that’s okay.”

Faye smiled shyly. “Well, we get to have double garlic bread because you’re coming for dinner.”

“I love garlic bread,” Rosie admitted.

“Me too!” Faye squealed, but then dropped her expression into the teenage ambivalence Rosie knew very well from when she’d been that age. “I mean, everyone loves garlic bread.”

“Come on, you two,” Marshall interrupted, rolling his eyes good naturedly. “I’d better get cooking.”

Rosie followed them into the car. Faye took the front seat next to her dad, and Rosie was happy to get in the back.

Marshall navigated the truck across the city and within twenty minutes they pulled up outside a tall brownstone. The end of its terrace, two big roman-style pillars flanked the entryway and a Victorian style lamp glowed on the wall above the buzzer panel.

Tapping in the code, Marshall let them in, first through the main door, and then into his ground floor apartment.

The living space was bigger than Rosie had expected, breezy and open plan. He’d been right though - no soul. The kitchen looked like it wasn’t often cooked in. The fridge held a selection of takeout menus and some polaroids of Faye, stuck up with magnets. Plain drapes lined the big picture window, and on the coffee table lay an official looking folder, likely full of police work.

“Dad’s place needs work,” Faye said shortly. She opened the fridge and took out a carton of orange juice. “You want some?”

“Sure.” Rosie shrugged off her coat and Marshall hung it with his own.

Faye set out three glasses and sniffed the juice before pouring. Beside her, Marshall started assembling the ingredients for lasagne and pulled frozen garlic baguettes from his small freezer compartment.

“What can I do?” Rosie asked as Faye shrugged her coat off and tossed it on the sofa. 

“Dad and I usually cook together,” Faye replied from across the room, but then added, “how about you chop the herbs?”

The teenager set up her phone as a speaker and played some bubbly pop music as the aroma of cooking meat filled the space. Marshall asked Faye questions about her friends and her day as he measured out pasta sheets, and before long the dish was set in the oven, the aroma making Rosie’s stomach clench in hunger.

Marshall plated up the garlic bread and Faye practically vibrated next to him as he carried the dish to the table. 

She snatched up a piece and tossed it from hand to hand. Rosie laughed at her antics. “A girl after my own heart.”

“So is it serious with you and my Dad?” Faye asked after chewing a mouthful of garlicky baguette.

“Faye,” Marshall growled.

“No, it’s okay,” Rosie allowed. “I care about your Dad very much, Faye. And to answer your question, I believe it is serious.”

Faye looked to her father for confirmation of this.

Marshall nodded. “I’m serious about Rosie. She makes me happy.”

For a second Faye looked from her father to Rosie and back again, as if deciding something. Then she smiled shyly. 

“You’re happy?” she asked Marshall.

He hesitated. “Yes…?”

“So... can I stay up late tonight? And can I pick the movie?”

Marshall looked at Rosie over Faye’s head, and his expression said _I think we’re going to be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever thanking my beta, @ly--canthrope


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A much needed chat.

The clock ticked towards midnight.

Rosie snuggled into Marshall on the couch, sighing with contentment.

“It’s been a long time since I made out on a couch like a horny teenager,” she confessed.

“Me, too.” He kissed her neck, his beard tickling nicely. “You make me feel like a horny teenager, Rosie. I can’t get enough of you.”

She arched into him, curling her fingers into his hair. “You can have all of me.”

He groaned. “I wish I could.”

She chuckled, frowning. Yeah, it wouldn’t be great to have his teenage daughter wake up and walk in on them doing the dirty.

Rosie slid out from under him and sat up. Marshall followed her lead and sat back against the couch, opening his arms. Rosie shifted so her back was to his front, and he bent and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Tell me about him,” Marshall prompted.

“Who?” she tangled their fingers, playing with his hand idly. “Dylan? My ex-husband?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Rosie sighed. “Where should I start? I grew up a small midwestern, one horse town. Nothing special about it. But I was that girl, who always had her head in a book or a paintbrush in her hand, dreaming, always dreaming.”

Marshall chuckled and brushed a kiss over her hair. “So basically you’re Belle and I’m the Beast you tamed.”

“Yes! Ha, that reference. You’ve seen it?”

Marshall’s brow winged up. “I have a daughter. I could practically recite the film word for word. I’ve not seen the newer one though, the live action deal.”

“It’s fun.” Rosie worried her lip with her top teeth for a second before speaking again. “So one Summer, we had a travelling theatre come to town, doing Othello. Dylan was playing Iago, and boy, was I smitten. He was a _fantastic_ actor. And I hung around afterwards because my sister, Dahlia, wanted to talk to the man candy that was playing Othello, and Dylan struck up a conversation with me. The next day, he arrived at my parents’ house with a bouquet of wildflowers. I was bowled over, you know?”

She stared straight ahead as she spoke, lost in the past.

“We went on three dates while the production was in town. Kissed under the rows of temporary wooden seats. He read me poetry by moonlight. It was everything my stupid, dreamy young heart wanted, and we got married. By then he’d got a job teaching drama at a high school a few miles away.”

Marshall cuddled into her, just listening. 

Outside, the winter wind whipped at the windows, the patter of freezing rain matching Rosie’s mood.

“We were happy, or, I thought we were? Maybe just I was? I don’t know anymore, and believe me, I’ve been over it a million times in my head, and with Dahlia. Anyway.” She cleared her throat, shoved one hand through her hair. “The next summer, the travelling theatre came back and asked Dylan to play a small part, for old time’s sake. He did, every night for two weeks. I went a few times, but the times I didn’t go, he came home stinking of perfume. When I asked him about it, he laughed, said his co-stars wore a lot of scent. I didn’t buy it, but I didn’t want to be that paranoid wife, you know?”

Marshall growled low in his throat, but didn’t interrupt.

“Anyway, after that he had to work late a lot. He swore that I was his only love, but how often do you need to work late at a high school, teaching drama?” She snorted. “The final straw came when I went to a school event with him, a mixer to welcome two new teachers. One of them was lovely - sort of a classic beauty, rosy lips, hair like Rapunzel. He flirted outrageously with her, right in front of me. Even she felt uncomfortable, and when I went to the ladies room, she was there, freshening her lipstick. She touched my arm, and asked if I was okay.

“It all came out then. Dylan working late. Acting dispassionately toward me at home, except if he wanted sex. I felt like a cook and a cleaner but not a wife. And that night, I knew I had to leave him. Took me six months to pluck up the courage; to decide what I wanted to do and where I should go.”

She let out a long breath. “He never hit me, if that’s what you were thinking, was never overtly abuse.”

“There are many different kinds of abuse, Rosie. Fuck, I’m sorry.” Marshall kissed her hair. “Thank you for telling me.”

Rosie turned and buried her head in his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

She let out a long breath. “I never came to NYC thinking I’d meet someone else.” Lifting her head, she met his gaze. “And I never meant to fall in love with you. But there it is. I love you, Walter Marshall, and I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

“I love you, too. I’ve been feeling it for a while now, wondering… _hoping_ you might feel the same.” Marshall held her tightly, pressing kisses to her hair, her cheeks. “I never want to let you go. With everything I have, I want this to work.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Marshall-Faye-Rosie fluff, and a cliffhanger (it's my jam, it seems!!).

“Okay. Thanks, Christie.”

Rosie hung up and glanced over at Marshall. “Christie says they’re having cctv - discreet cameras - installed in the diner. That way, if Dylan comes back… well, we’ll know.”

Marshall stood at the stove, scrambling eggs and frying breakfast patties. The smell of sausage, herbs and butter hung heavily in his kitchen, making his usually dull, soulless apartment into a home.

“You okay?”

Rosie rolled her shoulders. “Yes. No? I don’t know.” She moved over to the stove and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her face into the shallow between his shoulder blades. 

Marshall turned off the stovetop and shifted in her embrace so he faced her, then cupped her face in his hands, kissing her deeply. Rosie responded instantly, her soft lips parting under his, and oh  _ fuck, _ he would never ever tire of how loving and responsive she was. As she slid her arms around his neck, he licked into her mouth, already feeling himself getting hard. For as long as he lived, he knew he’d never tire of the flames that danced between them.

“Gross.”

Rosie sprang away from him, and Marshall looked up to see Faye standing in the doorway, smirking.

“Boys are gross, sometimes,” Rosie smiled.

Faye tilted her head slightly, in that way teenagers have when they think they know  _ so much more _ than adults. “No, I like boys. But you kissing my  _ Dad - _ that is gross. What’s for breakfast?”

Marshall lifted the spatula to scoop eggs and pointed it at his daughter. “Less of the gross around my girlfriend, please.”

Faye squealed. “Hah! You said the G word!” She grinned at Rosie.

Rolling his eyes, Marshall started dishing up the food. “I have the distinct feeling I was led into a trap.”

“How did he get promoted to Detective?” Faye stage-whispered to Rosie.

Marshall settled down in his seat at the table, feeling warm inside from more than the coffee. 

*******

  
  


**ROSIE** : Hey sis. Sorry I’ve not been in touch for a while. I’d love you to come visit. You sure you can drive your wagon all the way to New York?

**DAHLIA** : Ha fucking ha. I love small town life, but they sure don’t have the shops and the food you do. I’m gonna bring an extra suitcase and tell Evan that I’m about to spend our life savings.

**ROSIE** : Don’t tell him that until you’re already on the plane.

**DAHLIA** : I have some leave due. See you end of next week? Do I get to meet the new guy? Assuming you can stop boning him long enough to introduce us.

**ROSIE** : Can’t wait. And yes, I’ll introduce you, and we’ll both be wearing clothes.

*******

Later that evening, Rosie cuddled up to Marshall on her futon, Salami curled at their feet. The cat had largely accepted him into the apartment now. Rosie loved it. Salami’s affections were not easily won.

“So, it went well with Faye, huh?” she asked, breathing in the scent of him, fresh soap and cedarwood.

“Better than I ever could have hoped.” He dropped a kiss on her head. 

She absently drew circles on his chest with her index finger. “What a great kid. You and her Mom did a great job.”

“Thanks for that - for including Angie.”

Rosie smiled into his shoulder. “Faye’s mom will always be a part of her life, and your life. I’ve no reason to cut her out.”

“You’re one of a kind, Rosie Dawes, you know that?”

Her heart squeezed. “I’ll never be sorry I found you, Walter. I never thought I’d be this happy. Ever again.”

Marshall rolled so he lay on top of her, one thigh spreading her legs. “I’m going to try my fucking hardest never to give you a reason to regret us, sweetheart. I swear.”

Rosie slid her hands into his curls, tangling her fingers in his soft hair, still damp from his shower. “You sweet, wonderful man.”

He chuckled. “Sweet. Every guy’s dream adjective.”

“How about another?” she murmured, loosing one hand from his hair to explore down his body, cupping him where he was hard and ready. “Big.”

“Getting better.”

She licked into his mouth. “Fuckable.”

“Better still.”

On a laugh, she hooked her legs over his hips. “God,  _ yes. _ ”

Her phone chirped as Marshall started kissing her neck, and Rosie tensed. “Sorry. I’d better get that - Dahlia did say she’d text me about flight times so I could sort my shifts at work.”

Marshall rolled on to his back as Rosie slid her phone off the little nightstand, swiping to activate the screen.

“Oh. Oh… oh.”

“Rosie?” Marshall sat up. “What is it?”

But Rosie just stared down at the phone in silence.

UNKNOWN NUMBER

I’m guessing you got my gift by now. I hope you liked it. Maybe you’ll wear it tomorrow? I’ll be watching. D.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY!! FINALLY THIS IS BACK!

“Breathe, just breathe,” Marshall murmured to Rosie as she dropped the phone on the floor. She barely registered the clatter it made. Salami meowed in distaste for the sound. 

He gathered her into his arms, silently fuming at this new twist.

How had Dylan - or whoever was behind this - got a hold of her number? She didn’t do much on social media. Could he have bribed someone to get it? If so, who?

“He’ll be watching….” Rosie sobbed out, clutching at Marshall and sliding her fingers through his hair. “What am I meant to do with that? What?”

He held her as she keened into his chest. Really, it amazed Marshall that Rosie had been so strong for so, so long. That she hadn’t caved until now.

He held her through the storm as the tears came and soaked his t-shirt; he held her when the tears dried up and she was so tired that she dozed a little.

When she finally slept, he tucked her in. Salami followed him to the kitchen area where he gave the cat a treat, and then dug out his phone to call Commissioner Harper. Yeah, it was almost eleven p.m, but the man hardly slept since his wife had died five years back.

“Harper.”

“It’s Marshall. Sorry it’s late, but-”

Harper choked off a laugh. “Ten years on the job, and now you start apologising for calling me in the evening?”

Marshall smiled. “Okay.”

“What is it?”

Leaving nothing out, Marshall reiterated the evening’s events. Harper listened, without once interrupting.

“Now can we put a patrol car on her?”

Silence, but Marshall heard the strike of a lighter. Harper usually only smoked when he was thinking.

“You really feel that he’s dangerous?”

“I do. There’s no way this can end well.”

“Of course there fucking isn’t,” Harper sighed. “I’ll put in for it, okay? That’s all I can give you. Bastard hasn’t actually hurt anyone.”

“Yet,” Marshall bit off.

“Yet,” Harper echoed.

Salami wound around Marshall’s legs as he hung up the phone. Unable to sleep, he made himself a cup of peppermint tea and turned the lights down low. He chose a paperback at random from Rosie’s shelves and settled in at the foot of the futon.

After two chapters, his eyes started to droop, and he glanced over to see Rosie curled up under the covers. He brushed his teeth, washed out his mug, and switched off the last lamp, sliding in beside Rosie and tugging her close. She mumbled in her sleep, and he tucked his face into the curve where her shoulder met her neck. “I swear on my life, I will never let him hurt you,” he muttered, his heart clenching just thinking the words.

Then he dropped into sleep as Salami jumped up on the bed, circled a few times, and curled up by his knees.

*******

“Rachael will sit in the deli in the morning, and I’ll take the afternoon shift.”

Rosie shoved her arms into a sweater. “Rachael?”

“Chopped cheese.”

Rosie smiled after poking her head through the neck of the pale yellow sweater. “Can’t believe we were so close all this time. She’s so nice to me.” Her brow furrowed. “Did you two, ever, ah…”

“Nope.” Marshall crossed the room and tucked the label of the sweater in at the back of her neck. “Never.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Rosie smiled as she tugged on her socks. “She looks so sharp in her blazer, though.”

Marshall kissed the top of her head as he checked his messages. “Lucky for you, I prefer a ponytail through a deli ballcap.”

She swatted at him playfully, feeling brighter this morning. Yesterday she’d cried it all out, her heart aching, stomach burning at the simple unfairness of it all. Why now? Why now, just when everything was coming together for her?

“Did your sister text about the flight times?”

“Oh, she did.” That thought buoyed Rosie up. “She’ll be here in a few days. I’d love her to meet you. And Faye, if you think it isn’t too soon.”

He smiled, and the warmth reached his eyes, the blue of them deep in the half-shadow of the kitchen area. “Rosie, I love you. I’m all in. It isn’t too soon.”

Oh, her heart turned over, and she grabbed him, tunnelling her fingers into that gorgeous tumble of hair, pulling him close for a kiss that started off sweet and turned more passionate. She licked into his mouth, tasting coffee and the sweet edge of breakfast cereal, and then Marshall’s phone chirped, and he frowned against her lips.

“Sorry. Might be Harper. I asked him if he could spare a patrol car for you.”

“Well, that makes it more real. What did he say?”

Marshall swiped the screen open and read the message. “Thank fuck. Okay. By tonight it’ll be done, for seventy two hours. That’s all he can spare, but it’s more than I’d hoped for.” He blew out a breath. “He came through. I just…. I can’t lose you, Rosie. I can’t. I can say, in a way I’ve never been sure of anything, if I lose you, it’ll destroy me.”

“You won’t. You won’t, Walt.” Rosie cupped his face and kissed him, long and slow, drinking him in. “Now that I’ve found you, I’m not letting this thing between us go, not without a fight. Besides,” she teased as Salami wound around Marshall’s leg, “Imagine how long it would take to find another guy that this cat approved of?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie tries to resume normal life.

When Rosie arrived at work, it was to see Rachael and Christie deep in conversation in the doorway to Christie’s office. The sight made her heart hammer in her chest, another nail in the coffin of pretending this wasn’t happening. 

She held her chin up high, spotting Arlo clearing dishes.

“Hey, Rosie.”

“Hey,” she greeted him. She genuinely held no resentment towards the kid. At his age, she’d likely have done much more than deliver a simple parcel for the promise of fifty dollars, cash.

“Listen, Rosie, I’m really sorry. More than you can know.”

She touched his shoulder. “It's okay. I’m sorry you were manipulated like that.”

The tension seemed to drain out of him, and when their eyes met, Rosie noticed that Arlo’s were wet.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “For being you.”

She left him to clear the plates from a big group booth, and made a beeline for Rachael and Christie. 

Christie looked up first, her long, dark hair trailing from the back opening of her ballcap. 

“How you holding up?”

Rosie frowned, pushing a hand through her own tumble of hair. “Okay? I don’t know. Should I know?”

“It’s okay to feel how to feel,” Rachael soothed. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you. Promise.”

Her soothing words only made Rosie feel more anxious, somehow “What if something happens to you? Or Christie, or Arlo? Or… God, or Marshall.”

Rachael shared an inscrutable look with Christie.

“Rosie is a tough cookie,” Christie said evenly. “She won’t break.”

Rosie sent her manager a look of silent gratitude.

Rachael seemed to consider this, several emotions passing over her narrow, pretty face, but then she nodded. “His behaviour does seem to be escalating. I won’t hide that from you, but, you will have deduced that for yourself anyway. He may become violent but there has been no evidence of that so far. And you said he was never violent during your marriage?”

“Never,” Rosie confirmed. “He was many things, but he never abused me physically.”

“Okay.” Rachel shouldered her laptop bag. “I’m going to take a seat at this end, facing the door. If you see something out of place, come by my table, or if you can’t make it to me in time, you can say we’re out of avocado, and I’ll know something is wrong.” She hesitated, cracking a small smile. “Unless you are regularly out of avocado?”

Christie grinned. “This is New York City, sweetie. If we ever ran out of avocado there’d be riots.”

Rosie snorted in agreement. “You got that right. We would especially never hear the end of it from that hat shop guy. Okay boss. I better get to work.”

Rachael moved off to take her seat in the deli, and Christie cupped her hand on Rosie’s shoulder, squeezing. “We’ll take care of you, honey.”

Rosie’s eyes burned.” I don’t deserve you. Any of you.”

“It’s not about _deserve_. It’s about doing what’s right. But for the record, you deserve every happiness, Rosie. Do you really think I’d have recommended your art to my Uncle if you showed up late to work and sassed me? I like you. And besides, _no one_ threatens my staff but me.”

Rosie chuckled as she went out back to don her apron and to cover her hair with the deli ballcap.

The day seemed to progress as any other. Rosie was very conscious of the fact that she was not wearing Dylan's bracelet. Every time the news replayed the segment with the sketch of him, her stomach dropped. She felt keenly attuned to any little sound from her surroundings.

In a lull, she stopped by Rachael’s table to refill her mug of coffee from the day's pot.

"Everything okay?" the profiler asked.

"I think it all seems normal, or as normal as possible given that my ex-husband has followed me across state lines to do I don't know what."

Rachael offered a reassuring smile. "We've got you."

As if on cue, Marshal pushed through the deli door, smiling broadly when he saw Rosie. In turn, she, too, lit up inside at the very welcome sight of him, his big jacket wrapping him up warm, his hair curling wildly at the nape of his neck, his eyes as blue as the pacific under the hot glow of the sun.

"Hey." Rosie crossed the floor to him and lifted her face for a kiss. He obliged, parting his lips just a fraction to slide his tongue over her lower lip, making her shiver.

"Sitrep?" He asked Rachael when he'd slid into the vinyl-covered seat opposite her.

"All quiet on the western front."

"Let's hope it stays that way."

"I dunno," Rosie murmured. "I don't want to live like this; always looking over my shoulder. My nerves are shot."

Marshall took her hand and lifted it to his lips. His beard tingled as he brushed his mouth over her skin. "Try to go about your day as normal. I’ll be watching."

The hours dragged by even though Rosie busied herself making a whole buffet tray of chopped cheese for an office a few blocks away. They normally ordered every week or so, for some big presentation or other. They were a regular client and Rosie added some extra fresh herbs, arranging the trays neatly so they'd be pleased when the whole deal was uncovered for the important clientele.

When the delivery driver called to say they were a few minutes out, Rosie didn't think twice about opening the double doors that led from the kitchen. 

But the usual delivery van driver wasn't waiting for her. Dylan was. A slow smile spread over his face when their gazes met.

"Well, aren't you as pretty as a picture. Got prettier since you hightailed it out of bumfuck."

Rosie opened her mouth to call out about avocados, but before she could get a single syllable out, Dylan grabbed her roughly, his hand over her mouth tightly.

He smelled familiar, but in a foreboding way that made her stomach seize. "Nice and quiet, babe. I only want to show you something. Come quietly and your piece of shit cop boyfriend will be just fine."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall investigates Rosie's disappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN 500 YEARS

Marshall strode to the counter, waiting for Christie to finish handing over three boxed pieces of apple pie to a customer.

“Where’s Rosie?”

Christie looked up, snapped off her food-handling gloves. “She’s out back, giving the food order to the delivery driver.”

His heart leapt into his throat. “You don’t get deliveries in the front?”

“No, we-” 

He saw the moment she connected. Her face went wan and she started running for the back as he did, his palm going to his back for his weapon.

Christie pushed through the door to reveal the back fire doors hanging open, an upended tray of freshly made rolls sprawled all over the floor, each one still nestled in its cling film wrap.

“Fuck,” Marshall whispered, feeling his world pulling out from under his feet. “Fuck!” He ran out of the deli’s back doors and down the tiny industrial street. No tire tracks. Empty both ways.

Christie stood in the doorway, miserable. “I should have thought about the delivery.”

“Yeah. No shit.” But he softened, sagging, regretting the bite in his tone. “It’s not your fault. Rachael and I should have checked, too.”

He yanked his phone from his pocket and called Harper, delivering the news. The commissioner let out a string of expletives, promising to put out an APB for Rosie as well as Dylan.

“It has to be him,” Marshall ground out. “Fucking  _ has _ to be.” He knelt by the food Rosie had prepared. Some of the rolls were still warm.

She hadn’t been gone long.

He knew, as did every other cop under the sun, that the kidnapping victims who were not found in the first forty-eight hours of being taken, rarely got found at all.

Those discovered months later were the exception and not the rule.

He would sacrifice  _ everything  _ he had - his badge, his gun, his job - before he let Rosie become another cold case; another face in a manila file.

If that happened, if he didn't find her-

"Marshall," Harper snapped, bringing him back to the present.

“Will he call?” Harper barked down the phone. “What does he want?”

Marshall swallowed the bile in his throat.

His stomach twisted at the thought of telling Faye that Rosie was missing.

“Hard to say. What could he want from us? What could we give him? He wants  _ her. _ ” His heart pounded, his stomach contracted, but he forced himself to stay on the job.  _ Clear your mind. What would you do if this wasn’t Rosie? _

“I need some uniforms,” he heard himself say. "Start a grid search."

“They’re already en route to your location,” Harper replied, and Marshall hung up before he wasted any more time.

When the officers reached the deli, Marshall was pacing outside. 

Anyone walking past gave him a wide berth. 

He imagined he looked like a man possessed, and right now, more than ever, he didn’t give a shit what anyone else thought.

If he couldn’t save Rosie, then-

“Detective Marshall?” One of the uniforms spoke. He recognised her as Officer Taylor from the Plaza. She was accompanied by an officer with  _ Ramirez _ on his uniform.

He updated them as quickly as possible on the situation. “We don’t have a vehicle plate or even a partial at this point. I need you two to visit all the past locations we’ve received reports of  _ Whiskers _ from. I’m going to Rosie’s apartment.”

“Sir,” Taylor responded. 

Marshall didn’t bother to wait for them to climb back into their patrol car. He sped to his own truck, keys already in his hand, already calculating the fastest possible route to Rosie’s apartment. He’d never been more grateful to have the option of a siren.

Before he drove away the last thing he saw was Christie’s tortured face, watching from the deli window, her eyes terrified.

He made himself put aside everything except finding Rosie.

*******

Marshall didn’t announce his presence as he might usually, but when he pressed his foot against the edge of Rosie’s apartment door, it creaked open.

_ Fuck. _

He shot up his gun, eyeing her living space over it.

Salami ran out from under the futon and he nearly shot the cat in surprise. “Shit. Hey, buddy.”

Salami stared up at him with undisguised anger.

“I know. I’m gonna get her back. I swear.”

He did a sweep of the apartment. 

The bed was made. 

It hadn’t been when they had left earlier today. 

The back of his neck prickled up.

He lifted the pillows. 

Nothing. But - he kept going. Why had it been made?

He lifted the futon cover. It had been placed on loosely, and-

Scrawled in black eyeliner on the white mattress protector, in Rosie’s handwriting, was a number plate.

_ God, I love you, Rosie. _

He yanked out his phone as Salami came to sit at his feet, watching his moves.


End file.
